


The Fighter

by speakingwosound (sev313)



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, M/M, Origin Story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 21:03:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 22,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5470697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sev313/pseuds/speakingwosound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Andy's origin story. </p>
<p>Or, the one where Andy develops a superpower and takes the long road to becoming a superhero.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [empressearwig](https://archiveofourown.org/users/empressearwig/gifts).



> This is a Yuletide treat, based on empressearwig's addicting request for a superhero fic. This was supposed to be a couple-thousand-word prequel to a much longer fic. Then my mind played tricks on me and I fell even more in love with Andy than I thought I was before, so instead you're getting 20k of Andy's origin story. I hope you like Andy Murray at least a little? If not, I apologize profusely. Rest assured, I am still working on the young guns superhero story you actually asked for. Hopefully it will be much richer for having read this one first.
> 
> Also, the very beginning of this fic references the school shooting in Dunblane when Andy was a boy, but it never talks about the shooting directly.

Andy's teeth rattle with it.

Fear, despair, panic.

Pain. Andy never forgets the pain.

"It's normal," the therapist tells him. "You witnessed something horrific. It's alright to be afraid."

"It's not _my_ fear," Andy says.

She smiles, indulgent, gentle, like she doesn't believe him at all.

"He's very empathetic," she tells his mother when Judy comes to pick him up forty-five minutes later.

"I know," Judy says, with a fond, sad smile, twisting her fingers into Andy's hair. 

Andy feels warmth and love and worry. He feels her fingers tug at his scalp. The pain helps a little.

***

"You don't have to go," his father says, his hands tight on Andy's shoulders. "Everyone will understand if you don't."

Andy feels exhaustion and resignation and frustration.

"I should go." Andy straightens his shoulders, pulls away from his father's hands. His head clears. "All my mates will be there."

Willie sighs. "If you're sure-"

Andy nods, straightens his chin, and makes it halfway through the funeral, standing between his mother and his father, taking it. Taking the tears of the widows and the cries of his classmates, letting it wash over him, letting it flow into him, taking it in, as much as he can stand it. 

They seem quieter, lighter, a little, as he gathers the loss and the anger to him, letting it fill him up, from his toes to his knees to his chest. Lets it fill him up until he's heavy, until he's overflowing with it, until he isn't doing any good anymore, until the cries and the tears start up around him again. 

Until he doesn't know who he is anymore.

He doesn't know how loud he screams or how far he runs. He doesn't know how long he sits behind the giant oak tree, muffling his screams in his bent knees and pulling at his hair, as hard as he can, hoping that the pain will ground him.

"Andy."

Jamie's voice is soft and his hand is warm and sweaty on Andy's shoulder. Andy shivers with the worry and the fear and the underlying current of anger.

"It's too much," Andy whimpers, tugging at his hair until Jamie pulls his hands away, holds them in his.

"You're hurting yourself."

Andy shakes his head. "I want- I need-"

"It's not your fault," Jamie murmurs, settling onto his knees in front of Andy. "You don't need to punish yourself."

There's a sharp, bitter twang of anger that thrills through his body and Andy moans, pulling his hands from Jamie's and curling in on himself, rocking back and forth, not caring that he's covered in dirt and tears and twig scratches.

Jamie sits back on his heels, lets Andy cry, lets him dig red, angry crescents into his palms as he tries to ground himself. Until finally, finally, the pain and the sadness and the anger recede, not enough, not much, but just enough for Andy to lift his head, murmur, "Jamie," because he knows who he is, because he knows who Jamie is.

"Yeah." Jamie reaches out, but stops, his hand hovering in mid-air, when Andy flinches away.

"Don't touch me."

"I-" Jamie drops his hand to his knees. "I won't. Andy, what's going on with you?"

"I don't know." Andy shakes his head, raises his suit sleeve and wipes his streaming nose and eyes with it. It's going to have to be dry cleaned before it can be returned to the tailor; his dad's going to kill him. "I don't know what's happening to me."

He still feels full and wet and so, so sad.

"Why don't you try to explain it to me?" Jamie asks. Andy shakes his head. "Please?"

Andy takes a deep, shaky breath and holds out his hand. Jamie meets him halfway, their fingers brushing, and Andy closes his eyes against the onslaught.

Rage and grief and concern.

Rage and grief and concern.

Rage and grief and concern.

Rage and grief and-

When Andy opens his eyes, he's lying on his side in the dirt, crying into the tree roots. He sees Jamie sitting across from him, his eyes wide and wet, and Andy struggles to sit up. "What happened?"

Jamie shakes his head, reaches his hand out.

Andy recoils, pushing back against the tree.

"Let me-" Jamie shakes his head. "Please, just, let me try something?"

Andy doesn't want to. He doesn't want to hurt anymore. He doesn't want to- He trusts Jamie. Jamie's his brother. So he nods, slowly, holding out his hand again. It's shaking.

Jamie takes a deep, chest-rattling breath, and gently touches his fingertips to Andy's.

Andy closes his eyes. He feels-

Calm. Slow and deliberate, like thick, sweet lemonade on a muggy summer's afternoon. Like circling the wooden spoon through molasses cookie dough when his mother asks him to help with Christmas preparations.

Andy whimpers.

Jamie snatches his hand back, swears. "Sorry, sorry, I thought that might help, but-"

Andy slits his eyes open, wrinkles his forehead against the emotions threatening to drag him under again. "Can you do that again?"

Jamie laughs a little wetly and shuffles to sit next to him. He reaches out, placing one hand on the bare skin of Andy's neck, under the stiff collar of his dress shirt, wrapping the other behind Andy's shoulders. This time, there's a quick, pulsing layer of triumph mixed in with the deliberate calm.

Andy buries his head in Jamie's neck, breathing deeply as his body stops shaking, as the anger and the sadness and the fear sink to his shoulders, then to his chest, then to his knees. Until he can remember what he's doing here, where he is, until he can remember that this is embarrassing, running away from a funeral to hide behind a tree and cling to his brother's neck.

He raises his head, tries to pull back, but Jamie's arm tightens around his back. Andy frowns. "I need to apologize, for leaving like that."

"No one noticed," Jamie promises.

Andy feels the lie in his elbows. He raises an eyebrow.

Jamie chuckles a little. "Alright, well, you did scream a little, but, no one blames you. It was a lot to take in, back there, for anyone, I can only imagine what it was like, for someone with your-" Jamie nods at Andy's head, like that explains anything.

Andy wants to argue, but Jamie pushes his head back to lie on his shoulder. Jamie's only ten, only a year older than Andy, himself, but he feels big and safe and calm, and Andy closes his eyes, lets himself go.

***

"They told us he was empathetic," Judy tells the new therapist. She's a specialist, but what of, Andy's not sure. The sign on her door didn't specify.

The specialist laughs, scratches a quick note in her notebook. "He's a bit more than that. Mrs. Murray, your son is an empath."

Judy straightens, sitting on the edge of the therapist's couch. The motion pulls her body away from Andy's, but not before he can feel her confusion and fear. Fear of him.

He frowns.

"He's- my son's a- a mutant?"

The specialist taps her pen on her notebook. "He has the gene, yes."

"Shouldn't they have tested for that? At the hospital?"

"Most often, talents like Andy's don't manifest until puberty. Sometimes, though, it can be forced early, by a specific need or a traumatic event?"

Judy shifts on the couch cushion. Andy pulls his leg back, so he doesn't accidentally touch her.

Judy clears her throat. "Yes, there was, um, he was there, at the Dunblane shootings."

"Oh, yes, that would do it." The specialist uncrosses her legs and stands. "I'm going to give you this booklet. It has some thinks that will make it easier for Andy to adjust. And I want to make another appointment. In a week, okay?"

Judy nods, reaching for the pamphlet and pushing Andy in front of her and out the door.

She doesn't talk about it, not until later, after dinner's been made and the table's been set and they all sit down, together, for the first time in weeks.

"I'm glad your home," Andy says, with a smile, when Willie passes him the salad.

Willie smiles back, but it's tight around the edges and, when their fingers brush on the side of the bowl, Andy feels frustration and concern and a deep desire not to be here. 

Andy pulls his hand back and the bowl crashes to the floor, shattering and spilling lettuce and tomatoes and dressing across the linoleum. "Sorry, sorry," he apologizes, crouching down to wipe ineffectively at the mess with his napkin.

"The cleaner's under the sink," Judy says with a sigh and, as Andy goes to get it, she starts telling them about his appointment with the specialist.

Andy slips back into his seat halfway through her telling, and Jamie bumps their knees together. "Hey, at least you know what you are now, right?"

Andy shrugs, but Jamie keeps their knees pressed together and all he feels is support and amusement and a little layer of jealousy.

Andy holds on to that, those feelings of support, until he's getting ready for bed and there's a knock on the door. Willie sticks his head around the doorjamb. "Mind if I come in?"

Andy shrugs. He finishes pulling on his football pajamas and climbs into bed. His dad pulls out the desk chair and sits in it, rather than on the side of the bed. They sit in silence, until Andy pushes his hair out of his eyes and glances up. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry for being, ahh, what I am."

Willie's head jerks up. "Nothing to be sorry for. It's genetics, is what it is."

"Yeah." Andy bites his lip.

"'s a little weird, and it's certainly not going to make your life easy, but, you're a Murray, right?"

Andy nods.

"Murrays are strong. Remember that son, alright?"

Andy nods again, tells himself not to say it, tells himself not to ask, tells himself he doesn't want to know- "Dad, earlier, when we touched-?"

"Yeah?"

"You, um, seemed like you were mad, at me? Was that because of what I am?"

Willie shakes his head, hard, leaning forward on his knees. "No, no, Andy, I'm not mad at you. I'm never mad at you."

"What were you mad about?"

Willie sighs. "It's just- your mom and I, we've been fighting a bit lately. We didn't want to worry you kids, it's not a big deal." He gets up, his knees creaking as he stands. "Don't worry about it, alright? I love you. Always have, always will." He leans over to press a quick kiss to Andy's forehead, too quick for Andy to feel if he's lying or not.

Later that night, though, when he sneaks out to get a glass of water, he hears hushed voices coming from his parents' bedroom. He presses his ear against the door, listens as Judy says, " . . . all the things in this magazine? They're expensive, Willie, really expensive."

"If the boy needs them-"

"What about what I need, huh? Do you even think about me anymore, Willie?"

"I gave up on pleasing you a long time ago."

Andy clutches his fingers around his water glass and tiptoes back to his bedroom. This time, when he cries, his tears are all his own.

***

The gloves help. A little.

"These are expensive," Judy says, warningly, as she helps him slip them over his fingers.

They're black, thick cotton laced with slivers of metal meant, Andy supposes, to block powers. Andy wiggles his fingers, they feel thick and a little claustrophobic. But when he reaches out, wraps his fingers around Judy's wrist, his mind is blissfully blank.

"How do they work?" She asks.

Andy grins. "Perfect."

She laughs and pushes him out into the yard to play football with Jamie.

***

"I like you," Sara says. Her hair is blond, twisting in curls around her ears, and Andy wants to push back the loose strands. His hands shake a little and he shoves them into his pockets.

"I, um-" Andy swallows. "Do you want to the movies sometime? With, ahh, with me?"

She grins. "Yeah, I'd like that. Tonight?"

"Tonight?" Andy thrusts down his panic, purposefully thrusts his shoulder into the push of bodies streaming through the hallway, pulling at the rush of feeling to cover his own.

"Hey, asshole," Brad pushes Andy away, pushing out his chest, so that Andy can't possibly mistake the Varsity A on his chest.

"Sorry, sorry," he says, holding up his hand, gathering in the ego and the anger and the condescension. "Sorry," he repeats, his mind clearing before he looks back at Sara. "Yeah, tonight's good. I'll pick you up at six?"

She nods, smiles, leans forward to kiss his cheek. It's just a quick brush of lips on his skin, but he feels cute and interest and curiosity before he pulls away, waves stupidly, begins counting down the minutes until six.

He can barely think by the time the clock rolls around to 5:30. Jamie's lounging on his bed, playing Snakes on the cell phone he got for his fifteenth birthday, peering up just long enough to raise his eyebrows at Andy. "You're gonna wear that?"

"What?" Andy glances in the mirror, straightens his t-shirt, turns to the side to make sure it doesn't make his hips look wide. "What's wrong with it?"

"Nothing." Jamie crosses his ankles. His cell phone beeps angrily as he dies. "Just, don't you wanna try? Put some effort into it, little brother."

Andy peels off the shirt, dropping it to the ground as Jamie covers his eyes.

"Ugh, it's blinding me with its paleness. Put it away, put it away."

Andy raises his middle finger behind his back.

Jamie chuckles, but when Andy pulls a blue button-down over his shoulders, he climbs off the bed and pulls the collar closed around Andy's neck. His fingers brush against Andy's skin, and Andy feels worry and excitement and pride.

"Shit," Jamie pulls his fingers back.

"It's cool." Andy shrugs, grabbing his coat and grinning at Jamie. "I'm proud of me, too," he says, smirking, and Jamie groans, falling back onto the bed, burying his eyes under his forearm.

"I hate you."

"Lies, all lies." Andy kicks at the bottom of his shoe. "And you can't lie to me."

"I hate you," Jamie re-iterates.

Andy's still laughing as he walks the few blocks to Sara's house, enough to overcome at least a little of his nerves when she meets him on the doorstep. She's wearing jeans and a sweater, thick and chunky and brushing against her curls when she turns her head.

Andy can't look away.

"Ready?" She asks, a bit of a smile in her voice, as she reaches out her hand to wrap around Andy's elbow.

Andy closes his eyes against the rush of emotions, even through the two layers of his jacket and his shirt. They come in a muddle of feelings so strong he can attach them to images he can't, technically, see: Sara, in front of the mirror, applying her lipstick with unpracticed precision; Sara, telling her mother, softly, sweetly, that the boy from Biology finally asked her out; Sara, promising her older brother that it'd be okay, that Andy wasn't going to hurt her, that she'd be home by curfew.

Andy pulls away, dropping his arm, stuffing his hand into his pocket. "Sorry, I-" He swallows. "I didn't mean to-"

"It's cool," she shrugs. "We're here anyway."

She points to the awning, and Andy nods, pulling out his wallet and the twenty-pound bill his mother lent him for the evening. He pays for the movie – an action flick he honestly doesn't remember choosing – and the popcorn and a small Coke to share between them.

"It's not good, for my diet," he says, apologetically, as he hands her the soda.

She takes it with a smile, "thanks for splurging with me," and when they take their seats, she leans close. "I saw your match last week. You're really good."

"Thanks." Andy blushes, watches her reach for the popcorn and reaches in after.

She curls against the seat, towards him, and stays that way throughout the movie, even as he flinches and jumps at the explosions and the flashes of light.

"Well, that was stupid," she says, when it's over and they're back on the sidewalk. The sun is down, but the streetlights illuminate the highlights in her hair.

"It was," he agrees, reaching for her, closing his gloved fingers around hers.

She raises their hands to her chest, picks at the cotton and the metal and frowns, just a little, just a little more than he ever wants her to.

"Why do you wear these?"

Andy swallows. He can feel her, curious and interested, in the back of his mind. No one's ever been interested in him before. "They keep me sane," he says, and it's not a lie, but it's not really the truth either.

"Hmm." She purses her lips, picks at the fabric, a wrinkle deep between her eyebrows.

"I had a really nice time tonight," he says, to cut her off, to keep her from thinking about it. About him. About what makes him different and strange and abnormal.

She turns, lifting her chin, stopping them under a street lamp half a block from her house. "I did, too." She smiles, flushed, and telegraphs her intentions long before he feels the emotions behind them.

Her lips are soft, sweet, gentle against his, as she thrusts him into a whirlwind of thoughts and feelings.

Pain as she falls, four years old, off her tricycle.

Jealously as her brother invites his girlfriend over for dinner, presses his hand to her knee as they eat their peas and meatloaf.

Excitement when Andy leans over her shoulder to peer into the microscope in Biology, all sweet and innocent and blushing as he asks her to the movies, finally, finally, as she's wanted him to for months.

Confusion and fear as Andy whimpers against her lips, as he doesn't respond, as he falls to the pavement in front of her.

"Andy, Andy-" She reaches down, brushes her hand against his, where they're buried in his hair, tugging, tugging, seeking the pinch of pain to ground himself.

"Don't-" He inches away, the knees of his good jeans scraping against the sidewalk. "Please, don't touch me."

Her fingertips brush his as she pulls away, sad and betrayed and confused. She'd thought she looked beautiful, that she'd chosen the right sweater and the right lipstick and said the right things. They were the same things her brother's girlfriends always says, the things that make his eyes go dark and deep and glazed.

Andy closes his eyes against the onslaught.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I didn't- I don't want to hurt you."

"What did I do?" She asks, her voice quavering.

"You didn't do anything," he promises, raising his head, his eyes wet and overflowing with everything she's feeling. "It's me, I'm not- I'm not normal."

She steps back, and he reaches out, touching the inside of her knee before he can think it through, and even through his gloves he's hit with a brick wall of betrayal and revulsion and a bone-deep need to run, to escape, to be anywhere but here. She flinches, and he pulls back, clutches his hands into his hair, and doesn’t watch her run away.

The next morning, his locker is painted with "mutant" in thick block letters.

Jamie's there, wrapping his arm around Andy's shoulders, pulling him closer when Andy tries to flinch away. "I'll get some paint remover at lunch," Jamie promises.

"Don't," Andy says. He betrayed her, he deserves everything she gives him. "Just, leave it."

***

The whole family comes to the airport. Willie hugs him, careful not to touch his skin, says, "I love you," and "I'll miss you," into the cotton of his sweatshirt. Judy says, "behave yourself," as she brushes her lips against his forehead, letting him feel all her apprehension and all her sadness at letting him go, her baby boy, into something unknown and unclear and, hopefully, something better.

Jamie pulls him aside, presses a cell phone into his palm, says, "call me if you need me," hugs him, hard and uncareful, and Andy closes his eyes against all of it.

"Go," Jamie says, pushing against his shoulder, shoving him towards security.

Andy hands the security guard his passport, branded with a big, bold "M" that marks him as different, as dangerous. As he's ushered into the extra security lane, he turns, waves at his family, reminds himself that this is for the best.

Jamie waves back. Willie doesn't put his arm around Judy's shoulders. Andy tugs at the ends of his hair.

When he gets off the plane in Barcelona, he's greeted by the headmaster and a couple of teachers and a teenager with long, dark hair and the brightest eyes he's ever seen, waving a singed sign that reads "Hola Andy."

***

"Again."

Andy sighs, rolling over and patting, gingerly, at the ends of his hair.

Rafa cringes, holding his hand out. Andy takes it without a second thought, falls into Rafa's confidence and amusement and guilt, as he allows Rafa to pull him up.

"Lo siento," Rafa says, then translates, "sorry," before his uncle can chastise him.

"It's okay," Andy promises. "No harm."

Rafa frowns, deep, thick lines around his mouth. He reaches up, brushes his fingers across the ends of Andy's hair as bits of ash fall around their feet.

Andy laughs, leaning into it for a moment as he pulls at Rafa's guilt until all that's left is the confidence and the amusement, until Rafa's mind is ordered again. 

Rafa tilts his head, peering at Andy as he lets go, running his hand through his own hair like he's a little confused, like he's noticed the work Andy's done. No one – not even Jamie – has ever felt the effects of Andy's powers. Rafa, though, just shrugs, smiles, takes it in his stride like he does everything else. "Gracias."

"Rafa, Andy, your parents pay a lot of money for you to train here, not to goof around." Toni taps his foot against the floor of the fire-resistant training room. "Go again."

Rafa pulls away, jogging to the other end of the room. He's full of energy, his body humming with it, his palm opening and closing over the small flame already building, unconsciously, between his fingers. 

"¡Concentrado!" Toni barks and Rafa jumps, guiltily, looking across the room at Andy. 

He holds up his palm, the flame flickering red and orange and blue.

Andy squares his feet.

***

"Little brother," Jamie exclaims, through a mouthful of something crunchy that crackles down the phone. "How's mutant school."

"Haha," Andy dead pans. "Mutant school is good. Filled with abnormals. I'm not so weird anymore."

"Nah, you'll never stop being weird to me."

"Oh, that's nice."

"Embrace it."

"Sure." Andy rolls his eyes, then jumps out of his skin as his door bangs open and Rafa skids into the room, already spewing a stream of excited Spanish that Andy doesn't understand. 

Through the phone, Jamie laughs, high and suspicious. "Is that your Spanish boy?"

"His name's Rafa," Andy corrects, kicking at Rafa's ankles to no avail. "And he has no manners."

Rafa gives him a 'who me?' gesture from where he's already sprawling across Andy's bed, his legs falling over Andy's. Through their jeans, Andy feels the cloud of excitement and energy and drive that always follows Rafa around, but also something muted and unintelligible swirling underneath. 

Andy looks at him suspiciously.

"Who is-?" Rafa asks, ignoring Andy's look and reaching for the phone. "I talk. Say hello. Show I have manners, no?"

Andy shifts the phone to his other ear, saying "I've gotta go," as quickly as he can. 

"Yeah, yeah, desert me for-" Jamie makes a deliberate pause- "whatever it is you're doing there. Again."

Andy huffs, hanging up before Rafa can wrench the phone from him. He definitely doesn't need his brother and his best friend teaming up against him; they're bad enough on their own.

Rafa pouts. 

"You could knock," Andy tells him, pointedly.

Rafa shrugs, his mouth smoothing into a smile. "I was bored, no? I think, Andy is fun. He entertain."

Andy groans. "You're so much work."

"I fun," Rafa insists, pulling at Andy's hand. "We play football. I win. You see."

Andy snorts. "I don't trust you." He lifts their linked hands, to show that he can feel all the energy Rafa's putting into misleading him. 

"I no lie. We have fun." He crosses his fingers over his heart. "Promesa, si."

Andy shakes his head.

Rafa pulls on Andy's hand. Despite his better judgment, Andy goes.

***

"When you said football," Andy tries, as they sneak through the dark Barcelona streets, "I thought you meant in the courtyard."

Rafa frowns, spreading his fingers in front of him, flickering with flames, to light their way. "Courtyard is boring, no?"

Andy shrugs. "Not so boring. And much more allowed."

For a moment, Rafa looks torn. His Uncle Toni pulling on one arm, his sense of adventure and the pull of the beach on the other. But then he squares his shoulders, pulls on Andy’s hand, and all Andy feels is his determination as they jog the rest of the way.

The beach is mostly deserted. Enough so, at least, that Rafa risks lighting a fire of driftwood with his hand. It lights the sand-pitch they draw for themselves, setting boundaries and goal posts.

It doesn’t take long before Rafa’s sweating, dripping through his shirt until he peels it off. "Qué?" He asks, turning to see Andy watching - staring - at him.

Andy swallows, shaking his head and sticking his foot out to steal the ball. 

"Oye," Rafa exclaims, racing after him.

Andy keeps score, but pretends that he doesn’t, and he expects that Rafa does the same. He can’t bring himself to care much, though, when Rafa collapses with exhaustion into the sand around Andy’s goalposts, spreading his arms and legs to make sand angels. 

Rafa's skin glistens in the firelight, covered in sweat and sand and a tan years in the making. Andy reaches out to nudge at his calf, just to feel his skin, just to feel as content and relaxed and satisfied as Rafa does. He doesn’t quite expect the melancholy that threads through it.

"Rafa, why-?" Andy drops to his knees, hovering next to Rafa’s thigh but not touching him. "Why are you sad?"

Rafa raises himself onto his elbows. "No sad. How you say-? Mallorca, my island, I miss."

"Homesick?" Andy offers.

"Yes, this, homesick. When I grow up, I always on beach, by water. Now I- Always inside, always training, always grass, no water."

Andy doesn’t say anything, he just reaches out, spreading his palm and wrapping it around the muscle above Rafa’s knee. With all the concentration he’s been learning, he pushes through Rafa’s emotions, pushes aside the happiness and the excitement and all the things that Rafa, carefully and deliberately, uses to order his mind, until Andy reaches that bit of sadness underneath.

When he finds it, he tugs at it, pictures it like a strand of blue light that can be unraveled, loosened, removed if he pulls at it hard enough, if he takes it into his body.

Rafa whines, low in his throat, reaching out a hand to hover over Andy’s chest. "You- when you-" Rafa points at Andy’s head, then at his hand. "Mis emociones, you make stop?" Rafa frowns.

Andy nods, still concentrating on the blue light.

"Sadness, homesick, angry, I no feel." Rafa tilts his head, drops his fingers to press against Andy’s chest. "You take. You feel?"

Andy shivers. The sweat is drying and his shirt is cool against his skin as Rafa presses against it.

"Yes," Andy admits. "I’m an empath. I feel your emotions, so you don’t have to feel them. That’s my power."

"What if I want feel them."

"You want to feel sad?"

Rafa shrugs. "Is good. Is what I feel, no?"

Andy drops back on his heels, pulling his hand from Rafa’s knee as if his skin is burning. 

But Rafa reaches out, catches his hand, says, "gracias," then, "I kiss you. Is okay?"

Andy stares at him, the smile lines at the corners of his eyes and the tan of his skin as it flickers with the strength of his power, like the fire is just under the surface of his skin. It is, Andy figures. Rafa can no more control his powers yet than Andy can. It makes him feel safe, like he's a part of something.

"Andy?"

Andy nods. "Yeah, okay." His stomach is in knots, flashing back to that first kiss, the way Sara felt and the way she looked at him after. Andy steels himself against it.

This is Rafa, though. Andy already knows the ebb and flow of his emotions. And if anyone is in control of their emotions, it’s Rafa, who keeps his emotions in little boxes, and only lets them out one at a time, when he wants to. 

So when Rafa opens his mouth, presses his lips, chapped and dry, to Andy’s, it’s all measured wariness and excitement and a deep, thorough sense of _finally._ It’s overwhelming, all-encompassing, but it’s also sorted, comprehensible, something that Andy can understand even as it drags him under.

"Si, si, Andy," Rafa murmurs, pulling at Andy’s hips, slipping under Andy’s shirt to tug at his skin. Andy goes, settling between Rafa’s legs, stretched skin-to-skin at more points than Andy can possibly keep track of.

Andy’s control slips away. He’s pretty sure that somewhere, under it all, he feels pleasure and arousal and some sense of awe as they rub together, graceful and graceless as only they can be, at fifteen, touching for the first time on an unknown beach in Barcelona, having found each other in a world unfriendly to their genetic abnormalities.

Andy doesn’t feel any of that, though, as lost as he is in Rafa’s pleasure, Rafa’s joy, the peak Rafa’s racing towards, pushing them both over the edge, gasping in tandem as Rafa scratches his fingers down Andy’s back and Andy clutches at Rafa’s arms, desperate to keep feeling this, to stay drowned in everything Rafa’s feeling.

Rafa laughs into Andy’s neck, breathing, wet and warm, into his skin. "Gracias."

Andy chuckles, just as wet and stupid and heavy. "Don’t need to thank me." 

They lie like that for a few moments, until it starts to feel like a lot - too intimate, too invasive, to still be sitting in Rafa’s emotions, to still be lying over Rafa’s body - and he pushes himself up.

"Qué?" Rafa’s face twists, his body humming with confusion, and Andy scrambles up and holds out a hand to pull Rafa up.

"Race you to the water?"

Rafa's emotions turn from confusion to determination, as he pulls out of Andy’s hand and races towards the surf.

***

Uncle Toni is waiting for them. He’s sitting on the academy steps, lines cutting deep and harsh into his forehead. Andy can feel waves of worry and anger and resignation without touching him, and he struggles to hold on to all of Rafa’s good emotions before Toni washes them away.

"I’m very disappointed in you, boys," Toni says, and it’s all he has to say. Rafa’s shoulders slump, his eyes downcast as he comes to a stop in front of his uncle.

"Sorry, we-" and then he drops in to a string of Spanish that Andy can’t possibly hope to follow.

When he trails off, Toni uncrosses his arms and points towards the front door. "Go. I’ll figure out what I’m going to do with you in the morning."

Rafa sighs.

As he moves past Toni, though, Toni reaches out, pulls him into a quick hug, cupping the back of Rafa’s head. "I’m glad you’re okay," he murmurs, giving Andy a quick, grateful look, before he pushes Rafa away and into the building.

"Sorry," Rafa offers, when they’re inside, the artificial lights harsh on their eyes. "I no want trouble."

Andy’s shorts are sticky and his body is covered in sand and salt water, but he can only make himself regret it a little. "It was worth it, no?"

Rafa glances up at him, grinning stupidly. "Yes, si, was perfecto."

He gives Andy a little wave, his cheeks a flushed, as he turns down the hallway for his dorm room.

Andy grins back, and then he’s left alone, in his own dorm room, standing under the warm spray of his shower and trying to sort his own feelings out from under and around the pure force that is Rafa Nadal.

Andy never stood a chance.

***

"Mmm," Rafa whines, turning over to bury his head in Andy's neck.

Andy reaches over to swipe at the alarm they set before their nap. "Training," he murmurs, then, "your uncle will come looking for us," and that's enough to get Rafa up and out of bed and hopping into his shorts and trainers.

Andy groans, sitting up and burying his head between his knees. It's jarring, being thrown out of Rafa's emotions so abruptly, and he tugs at his curls, using the pain to ground himself in the confusing, lonely swirl that Rafa leaves behind.

Rafa pauses, reaches over to touch Andy's shoulder. "Okay?"

Andy wants to lean into it, drop back into the meticulous organization of Rafa's mind, but he forces himself to pull away. "Good, yeah."

Rafa's still frowning, but Andy waves him off, reaches up for a kiss.

When he pulls back, Rafa's grinning again, and Andy buries the worries that he pulled from Rafa's mind. "I know what you do." Rafa shakes his head, but he's still grinning. "You beat me today, for sure."

"Maybe," Andy shrugs.

"Mmm." Rafa presses his fingers to Andy's temple. "You good at this."

"Maybe your mind's just not all that complicated."

"Oye." Rafa pulls back to cross his arms across his chest. "Not nice, no?"

Andy laughs, pulling his shirt over his head before reaching over to kiss the pout from Rafa's mouth. "Race you to the pitch?"

***

Rafa flexes his palm, crackling with flames.

"Do you feel that?" Toni asks.

Andy closes his eyes, reaches out towards Rafa, feels the waves of determination. 

"Yeah," Andy says, not opening his eyes. 

"Good. Now, use it."

Andy grabs onto the determination, pulls at it until it separates, allowing Andy to grasp onto the emotions Rafa tucks away beneath. All the fear and sadness and-

Affection. 

Andy hesitates, just for a second, maybe less, but it's all Rafa needs. 

Andy knows it's instinct and training and everything they've been working for, but it still stings when Andy comes to in the infirmary. He hurts all over and there's a thick bandage over his left forearm.

"Put this on once every three hours," the nurse tells him, handing over a bottle of burn cream. "But you can go."

"Thanks," Andy says, gingerly taking the bottle and slipping off the medical bed. 

Rafa's waiting for him, bouncing in the doorway and gnawing at his index finger. "Lo lamento," he says, quickly, accent more pronounced than usual. "I not think- I think you ready. I think you defend."

"I know." Andy reaches out, but drops his hand before he touches Rafa's shoulder. "I should have been. It was my fault."

"No, no." Rafa shakes his head.

"Don't apologize for being better than me," Andy snaps. "That's the point of this, yeah? To be able to win our battles. Not your fault I'm not good enough."

They've reached Andy's room and Andy pushes open the door, wincing at the pull in his burned arm. Rafa hovers in the doorway, watching him, running his hand nervously through his hair.

"Is practice. I should not hurt my friend."

Andy sighs. He feels heavy and tired and guilty, and he doesn't know if it's coming from him or Rafa. "Practice as hard as you'll fight a real battle, isn't that what you always say?"

Rafa shrugs. 

Andy sighs again, sitting down on the edge of his bed. "Don't do that. Don't treat me differently just because we're-" He waves his hands between them.

"But is different, no?"

"Shouldn't be." Andy shakes his head, motions towards the other side of the bed. "Are you staying or-? Cause I'm still pretty tired and if you're not-"

"I stay, no?" Rafa says, too quickly, letting the door slam closed behind him as he toes off his sneakers and jumps on the bed, all before Andy can move. 

Andy lays back, allows their shoulders to press together gently. Rafa's emotions are measured and, for the first time, they chafe against Andy's mind. He feels stupid and clumsy in comparison, feels like he's losing more than their battles when he lets himself fall into everything that Rafa is. 

Or, at least, everything that Rafa allows him to feel.

Andy sighs, stops fighting the pull, and settles against Rafa's chest.

***

"You hold back," Rafa says. He’s sitting on the wall outside the school, swinging his ankles against the stone. "When we train."

"You hold back," Andy counters, "all the time."

Rafa’s brow furrows, and Andy gets a quick flash of worry before he covers it with false happiness. He’s been doing that more and more over the last few months.

"Yes," he admits, finally.

"I wish you wouldn’t."

"You not want up here." Rafa tilts his head, points to his mind. "Is messy."

Andy shrugs. "I don’t care. My emotions are pretty messy, too."

"I care." Rafa pulls his knee to his chest, wrapping his arms tightly around his leg and resting his chin on his knee. "I wish it was clean. How you say-?"

"Organized," Andy offers.

"Yes, this, is good. Organized, no?"

"Yeah," Andy sighs, "I know," because he thinks he’s always known. He’s always known that this is where they’d diverge, because Rafa seeks perfection and calmness, while Andy feeds off of stray emotions and chaos. Andy's always known that they'd have to draw a line in the sand, right here, and he's always known that he'd have to be the one to draw it. 

Rafa seems to be getting it, too. "Te quiero, mi amigo," he whispers, into his knee, like he can’t bare to have Andy see his emotions as he says it.

"Yeah," Andy breathes, "me too," knowing that it’s not enough, because the affection he feels every time they kiss isn’t love, and as comforting as it is, it’s not what either of them want to settle for. He runs his hands over the thighs of his jeans. "I think I need to go away for a little while."

Rafa’s head jerks up, and Andy feels his surprise and his confusion. "Qué? No. Is not-"

"It’s not about you," Andy promises because, mostly, it isn’t. This is something he’s been thinking about for weeks, since Jamie called to tell him, a little reluctantly, about the problems their parents are having with money since their dad was laid off, about the screaming fights they've been having about supporting two houses and Andy’s school tuition.

"You still my friend," Rafa insists, "even if nothing more."

"The best of friends," Andy promises. He reaches out to pull Rafa into a long, tight hug.

Rafa kisses the side of his neck. "I miss you."

Andy doesn’t know if he means it in present tense, or if the tense is lost in translation, but Andy’s chest tightens. He nods against Rafa’s skin, not trusting himself to say anything more.


	2. Chapter 2

"You've jipped me," Andy growls, flipping through the small stack of German marks. 

The manager crosses his arms. He's bigger than Andy, in height and diameter and in the force of his glare.

Andy pushes Stan's emotions aside. "There's not enough here."

"DM 300," Stan says, raising his hand and ticking off things on his fingers. "Minus gym fees and rent and penalties for injuring my fighter."

"I lost," Andy protests, incredulous.

Stan shrugs. "Not my problem."

Andy can feel his own anger bubbling up, pushing past the disinterest and general annoyance that's always rolling off Stan in waves. "I already have the bruises, I don't need more punishment for losing."

"Maybe you should start winning, then."

Andy's head is aching, between the bruise already darkening across his jaw and the sustained pressure of Stan's dark emotions, so he shrugs his shoulders, pockets the money, and heads out into the cold Berlin night.

He's pulling his beanie down over his mass of curls, muttering to himself as he relives the fight in his mind, when he passes the sliding wood doors. There's light shining through the cracks between the panels and Andy can feels waves of emotions pulling him in, as if they're calling to him, connecting with him.

He pulls at the latch, sliding open the doors and stepping inside.

It's a gym, dirty and rustic, but full of people, chatting and laughing and grunting. They're all practicing at the rows of heavy training bags hanging from the ceiling, or gathered around the main ring, where the bulk of the emotions are coming from. 

Andy pushes through, until he can see the two fighters. A young guy, tall, with dark, short-trimmed hair bouncing in place. Across from him, a guy nearly two-hundred pounds heavier, planting his feet and flexing his biceps. The crowd cheers, chants, "Ricky, Ricky."

"Arrête. Quiet." A woman whistles, stepping into the ring and raising her hands.

Ricky moves forward and Andy holds his breath. Ricky lands the first punch, hard, to the younger man's side and Andy shields his eyes, only watches with half of himself. 

And then, using his height to his advantage, he reaches over Ricky, gets a punch into his ribs. Ricky stumbles, face screwed up in pain, unable to fend off the series of devastating punches. Ricky crashes to the mat, closing his eyes for the eight count.

The crowd is stunned and then it erupts into applause and heckling. 

Andy doesn't move his hand from his forehead. This kid- this kid must be like him, if he's able to take down men of Ricky's size while barely breaking a sweat.

Andy pushes through the crowd, resting his elbows on the edge of the mat and peering under the ropes. "Do you own this gym?" He calls.

The woman slips out of the ring and lands on her feet next to Andy. "You're that kid, from Stan's."

"Yeah." He holds out his hand. "Andy."

"Amélie." She shakes his hand, quickly, shuttering a little bit. Then she lets go and heads back towards her office. 

Andy falls into step with her. "I want to train with you."

She snorts. "You can't afford me."

"I have money." He pulls the meager wad of marks from his back pocket. 

She stops just outside her office, shaking her head. "Look, kid, the way you fought tonight- There isn't much where that comes from. Buy yourself a meal or two. You could use it."

Andy knows he's a little lanky for his age, but he's fit, and he thinks the waves of skepticism coming from her are a little much. "With a little training, I can be good. I know it."

"We all think we can be the best," she tells him. "There comes a point where most of us have to admit that we can't."

She opens the door to her office, pauses with her hand on the doorjamb. "Go home, kid."

***

Andy's up at dawn, and standing outside the gym not much later. It's cold out, and he has his hands buried in the pockets of his joggers, his head bent against the wind, when the kid from the match the night before shows up. 

"You have chutzpah." He raises an eyebrow, the keys jangling between his fingers as he unlocks the doors and slides them open.

Andy shrugs. 

"Might as well come in." He ushers Andy inside, closing the doors behind them with a grunt. He peels off his gloves and holds out his hand. "I'm Nole."

Andy takes it, feels calm and nothing else. "Andy."

He follows Novak as Novak turns on the lights and readies the gym for the day.

"How long have you been training with Amélie?"

Novak squints at him, like he's measuring him, and Andy's not sure if he comes up wanting or not. "A few months. I train with Boris, mostly. This is his gym."

"Oh." Andy frowns.

"You should ask him to train you," Novak says, speculatively. "He likes chutzpah."

"I don't know. I-" Andy shrugs. "I kinda connected with Amélie, you know?"

Novak laughs. "She kicked you out of the gym."

"Yeah, well," Andy shrugs, "I like a challenge."

"Boris, he was a fighter."

"So was Amélie."

Novak shrugs. "Not the same."

"Kinda the same," Andy insists, feeling his hackles raise. 

Novak laughs again, shaking his head, his cheeks a little flushed before he turns to a rusted locker and pulls out two pairs of gloves. "Let's prove her wrong then, eh?"

"Yeah, I'd- You'd help me?"

Novak holds out his hands for Andy to tape. "I like a challenge, too."

Andy tapes him carefully, meticulously, brushing his fingers over Novak 's bare wrists and palms, but he feels nothing. Nothing but a sense of quiet, like all the sounds that are normally so loud and over stimulating are muffled, just a little, just enough for Andy to hear himself think for the first time in-

"Okay?" Novak asks, his brow furrowed, dropping his head so he can look up at Andy.

"Good, yeah." Andy holds out his hands. "Do me?"

"We must be crazy," Novak says, conversationally, but Andy can't feel any reluctance or apprehension from him.

"Sure," Andy agrees, knocking his gloves together and climbing into the ring. "But I've done crazier."

He thinks about stepping off the train from Barcelona, with nothing but a rucksack on his back and the lingering memory of Rafa in his arms, making his deal with Stan, to get beaten night after night in exchange for a small room and a few loaves of bread.

"You'll have to tell me sometime," Novak says, holding his gloves out. 

Rafa knocks them with his own, before stepping back and focusing his mind on pulling Novak 's emotions into him. 

He can't grasp on to any of them. 

He pulls harder. 

Novak gets him under the chin, then holds out a hand. "Sorry, I thought-" He frowns. "I thought you were ready?"

"I was. I am," Andy promises, taking his stance and reaching into himself for the emotions he usually pulls from his opponents. He grabs at the knots of anger and fear and self-recrimination sitting at the center of his chest and throws a series of punches that Novak blocks, but barely.

"There's the fire," Novak taunts, dancing out of the way and Andy growls, finding his center of gravity and following him.

The gym starts to fill up around the time that Andy's arms are beginning to ache and his calf muscles are starting to pull and twist with fatigue. They get a few whistles and cat calls, but Andy doesn't pay them any attention until Amélie says, loud enough for half the gym to hear.

"Thought I told you to get outta here."

Andy throws a punch that Novak barely blocks. "I'm not great at listening."

"Mmm."

Andy risks a punch to his side to glance at her. "I know I can't pay much, but I can do whatever needs done to earn my keep."

"You're dropping your left elbow."

Andy lifts his elbow, landing a shot to Novak's ribs.

She grunts and throws a rag that lands over Andy's shoulder. "I expect all the mats to be spotless before you lock up for the night."

"Does that mean-?"

She motions for him to follow her. "And get down here. We need to work on your essentials before you get into the ring."

***

"Left, right, left, right," Amélie orders, holding the practice bag for him. "Move your feet, come on."

"I am," Andy grits out. "I am moving my feet."

"Not very well," she scoffs. "Push off with your right toes."

"I am," Andy repeats, throwing three left jabs that push Amélie back a few feet. As he focuses on the punches, though, he loses his grasp on her emotions. And, as they slip away, so does his concentration and his energy.

He leans over, sweat dripping from his nose onto the tips of his sneakers. His arms are aching where his gloves are resting on his thighs.

She holds the bag still. "If you can't do it here, you'll never be able to do it in the ring."

"How do you know what I can and can't do in the ring?" Andy bites out. "You won't even let me _practice_ in the ring."

"I saw your fights."

He straightens, ignoring the aches in his knees and elbows. 

She raises an eyebrow. "You didn't think I'd take you on without seeing you fight first, did you?"

"You saw me?"

"Yes." She tightens her arms around the bag. "I noted that you have potential, but your footwork needs improvement. So, again."

Andy sighs, spreading his legs and finding his balance.

"Good." She nods. "Left, right, left, right."

***

Andy knocks on the edge of the decaying pinewood door to Amélie's office. "Can I talk to you for a moment?"

She holds her phone between her ear and her shoulder and holds up a finger to him.

He nods, and it must be jerky because she frowns at him and he sighs, turning his shoulders so he's leaning against the outer wall of her office. He's nervous, humming with it all the way to his knees, and he reaches out, looking for anything – anyone – to grasp on to.

Boris and Novak are in the practice ring, working through his combinations. Andy pulls a mix of pride and frustration from Boris that only makes him more nervous and he slips his mind over to Novak only to get-

Nothing.

Calm, maybe – a serenity that he certainly never sees in the way Novak approaches boxing, twitchy and aggressive and pompous. When he's in the gym, though, stretching his legs against Boris' shoulder and working meticulously through his left jabs, he's almost, well, Andy wouldn't call him serene, but, something close.

"Ready?"

Andy jumps, snapping his mind back and turning to see Amélie standing next to him, her jacket in her hands. He can't believe he didn't feel her come up next to him. "Where are we going?"

"I'm pretty sure this isn't a conversation you want to have here, hmm?"

Andy drops his head to rub at the back of his neck. His nerves are starting to settle in again. "Not really, no."

"Come on, then." She nods to the exit and he follows her, still dressed in basketball shorts and a ratty Barcelona hoody, his head bent against the wind and snow until they duck into the pub around the corner from the gym.

"I don't really drink," Andy admits, even as he takes a seat across the worn wood table from her.

"Wasn't a question."

"Yes, ma'am." Andy accepts the glass she slides across the table to him while she laughs. At him, he's pretty sure.

Andy matches her chug for chug through their first two pints, until his eyes go a little fuzzy. His head feels unsteady and full, buzzing with the chatter of emotions around him. They're hard to filter with the alcohol-induced low-barriers, and he straightens his back against the pain and frustration coming the couple next to them even as he buzzes with the excitement of the man at the bar, halfway through picking up a blond a step or two out of his league.

His eyes must go unfocused with the rush of emotions, because Amélie slams her glass on the table between them, oozing smugness and curiosity as she intones, "lightweight."

He turns his head to her, pulling at her emotions, trying to focus. "You tricked me."

"Stop that."

"What?"

"That." Amélie points to his head and circles her index finger.

Andy's nerves settle into his knees and he bounces them under the table. He swallows. "It's not my footwork that's the problem," he admits.

She snorts. "No kidding."

The woman next to them starts to cry. Andy feels her bitterness like it's his, but it's better than the nerves tingling up his spine. "If you know so much, why don't you tell me how to fix it?"

She leans back in her chair, leaning on its back two legs, and crosses her arms. "You wanted me to train you."

Andy shakes his head, dropping it into his hands and tugging at his hair. The pain is his, and he focuses on it. "Sorry, sorry," he whispers. His head feels full and heavy, the alcohol and the emotions dragging him under until-

Amélie's hand is warm as it twists into his hair. _You need to be truthful with me, or this isn't going to work._

He hears her like she's in his head and he jerks up, dislodging her hand and staring at her, his mouth agape.

She gives him a wry smile.

"Are you- how did you-?"

"I'm a telepath." She says, like it's nothing, like it doesn't define her, like hiding it hasn't been the single most important goal in her life. "I can read minds, when I want to."

"Did you-?" Andy swallows. "Did you know about me?"

"I suspected," she admits. "I watched your matches, I told you that."

"You could tell?" He shakes his head, but all he's getting from her are low levels of curiosity and amusement. "Just from watching my matches?"

She nods, reaching out, again, to touch his hand. _You need to learn to control it._

"I've been trying," he whispers, reaching out, desperately, to cover everything he's feeling with her emotions. He catches the edges of her amusement and pulls, tugging at it for a moment before stumbling back from a block. He stares at her. "How did you know I was going to do that?"

"You think I can't tell when someone's tearing at my emotions?"

He chokes. "No one else has ever noticed." Except Rafa. But, Andy's still trying not to think about Rafa. "I didn't meant to tear," he offers.

"I know," she assures him, sending waves of it with her words. "Most aren't as attuned to their minds as I am." She reaches her hand out, closing it over Andy's where it's lying on the table between them. _As you need to be,_ she continues, in his head.

He nods. "You'll teach me?"

"I agreed to train you, didn't I?"

He nods again.

"Well, then, drink up." She nods at the mostly-full third glass still sitting at his elbow. "No fighter of mine's gonna turn down a drink."

He picks up the pint and tilts it towards her. "If you'll still have me."

She taps her glass against his. "Don't be stupid."

***

Amélie devises a two-part training strategy. 

The first keeps Andy in shape, physically, with daily runs, an intensive stretching routine, and hours working on his combinations with the speed bag.

The second works Andy's power, perfecting the techniques Toni had taught him and adding more to his repertoire.

"Stop," Amélie orders, shaking her head and reeking with amusement.

Andy laughs, wrapping himself in it.

She drops his hands and he falls forward into the stretch, gangly and awkward and pulling a sore muscle in his lower back. "Fuck," he grits out, catching himself on his right hand and pushing himself up. "A little warning?"

"I did warn you." She crosses her arms and makes no motion to help him into the stretch again. "I told you not to use my emotions." She gets up and reaches out to help him up, pressing her hand to his chest, just above his heart. _You need to learn to use your own._

"Yeah, yeah." He pushes past her, reaching for his gloves and wrapping his hands. "What are we working on today?"

She rolls her eyes, exasperation permeating her skin. "Same as the last couple months." 

Andy opens his mouth, to say that _he's trying_ or to chirp her back, he's not really sure, but he's interrupted by Boris, hopping out of the ring and coming to meet them.

"My hip's not so great today," he says, hooking the practice pads under his arm and looking from Amélie to Andy. "Why doesn't Andy have a go? Real practice would do Djoker some good."

Amélie bites her lip and Andy can feel her uncertainty. "I don't know-"

Boris tilts his head, peering at Andy. "He won't be able to-"

"Oui, oui," Amélie quickly cuts Boris off. "It's a good idea."

Boris slaps Andy on the shoulder. "Knock Djoker down a peg or two, yeah?"

"I'll try," Andy promises, nervously. 

"Focus on your own emotions," Amélie says, reaching out to help Andy wrap his hands. Andy hasn't been in a fight, even a practice one, for months, and he feels jittery, bouncing on the balls of his feet to get the nerves out of his knees. Amélie tightens her hands around his. "You're gonna do great," she says, like a promise, and lets him go for a fist bump.

Andy nods, climbing in the ring. Novak's waiting, smiling from ear to ear, swinging his arms and holding out his gloves for a bump. "Finally," he says, in greeting.

"Have you been watching me?" Andy asks, suspect.

Novak shrugs. "You're the best in here, no? Besides me, of course." He puffs out his chest and Andy shoves him. Novak raises his hands in mock-surrender. "Hey, play fair."

"Sure," Andy agrees, squaring his shoulders and setting his balance over the edges of his toes.

When Novak throws the first punch, Andy reaches out, grasping, pulling at-

Nothingness. Smooth, opaque, vast nothingness.

Which can't be right, because Novak 's grinning, laughter lines at the sides of his mouth and his brow furrowed with unease. At least, Andy thinks it is- he hasn't had to read someone's body language since he was a kid.

Novak throws a second punch and Andy's off-balanced, confused, his mind empty. He fails to pull up a block, and Novak's fist catches under Andy's jaw.

"Shit." Andy leans forward, resting his weight on his knees and shaking his head. His mouth feels numb.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to hit so hard," Novak starts, before realizing that's a stupid statement. They're in the ring. Of course he meant to throw the bunch, he just probably expected Andy to stop it.

"Sorry," Andy says, a little belligerently. His jaw's starting to hurt.

"Andy," Amélie calls and Andy glances at her. She's leaning against the ropes and watching him, looking unconcerned about either his jaw or his failure to block. She rubs her fist over her chest – _from here_ , she projects, and it's faint, but he hears it – and nods her head in a challenge to him.

Andy squares his feet again, pulling up his gloves. This time, he reaches deep into himself rather than into Novak, pulling years of fear and frustration into his hands. He feints, tricking Novak left, before hitting three, quick jabs with his right.

Novak shakes his head, steps back, stares at Andy with new levels of respect.

On the side of the court, both Amélie and Boris are cheering, smug and conspiratorial.

Andy squares his shoulders again, ready.

***

"Hey," Novak calls from across the gym. 

Andy leans against the mop, wiping at his forehead and glaring at Novak. "What?"

"I need your help." Novak holds up a bottle of baby powder.

Andy rolls his eyes. "Some of us have work to do."

Novak rolls his eyes. "I work, all day. In fact, you were there today to prove it."

"I know." Andy opens his mouth gingerly, feeling his jaw ache and crack under the mottling bruise.

"Deal, okay? I help you, then you help me." Novak doesn't wait for a response, hopping into the ring and reaching for the sponge in the bucket at Andy's feet.

"Do you even know how to use that thing?"

"Hey." Novak puffs out his chest. "You think I come about this naturally?"

"Oh, I'd never think that. I've seen what you eat."

Novak throws the sponge and it passes an inch or so from Andy's ear. Andy groans, digging into his ear to clean out the soapy water.

Novak doesn't apologize, but he does make grabby hands for the sponge that Andy, reluctantly, retrieves for him. "I've cleaned this place one or two times myself."

His hands are still bent at his waist, all cocky attitude and ego, but his voice belays something a little softer. Andy reaches out, tries to dig underneath the happy, light feelings to figure out what it is, but he doesn't feel anything but the same nothingness he felt in the ring earlier.

"Hey." Some of his frustration must read on his face, because Novak reaches out to touch his wrist. "What-?"

Andy shakes himself, dipping his mop into the bucket and starting his meticulous cleaning of the ring. "Tell me more about your days slumming it with us normal lads."

Novak sits cross-legged on the mat and starts ineffectively cleaning it in repetitive sweeps of the sponge. "Not much to tell. Serbian boy has normal life. Loves pizza, loves sport, loves his family. Then the bombing starts and the boy is dangerous for his family, so he escapes to Berlin, starts training, becomes the best fighter the world's ever seen."

Andy's chest tightens, not from anything he's getting from Novak, but with the memories and fears the story brings up in him. It's unsettling, feeling his own emotions so strongly. 

"Okay, I will admit, I'm still working on that last part."

Andy shrugs. "My jaw thinks you're pretty good."

Novak gets to his feet, leaving the sponge sitting on the mat, and crosses to him. He reaches out, tilting Andy's head to get a better view of the ugly green, yellow, and purple bruise. Andy doesn't feel anything but the beating of his own heart.

"Sorry about that," Novak murmurs.

Andy swallows. "Not your fault."

Novak's face twists. "Kind of is."

Andy shrugs, reaching up to touch Novak's hand, just briefly, just with the tip of his fingers, searching, searching, and getting nothing. "I'm sorry, about your family."

"Not your fault," Novak parrots, his voice low and wet around Andy's words. He licks his lips, forcing a smile on his face as he steps away, pulling a bottle of baby powder from his back pocket. "Are we going to fill Boris's gloves, or sit around and mope all evening?"

"Do you have a death wish?"

"Nah." Novak holds the ropes so that Andy can follow him out of the ring and over to the lockers. "Nothing as cliché as that."

***

Boris boxes Andy across the ears as he passes, setting off a puff of baby powder as his hands connect with Andy's skin. "I'm blaming you for this."

Andy sneezes. "It was Nole's idea."

"I'm sure it was." Boris claps his hands together and powder flies through the air, staining them both white. "But you're the one with the locker keys."

Andy shrugs.

"You're going to make it up to me. I need a second for Nole's match tonight."

"Sure," Andy agrees, slowly, sure that there has to be more to it.

He feels Amélie come up behind them and clap a hand on Boris's shoulder. "This is a nice look for you."

She must project something else to him, because his annoyance gets deeper, darker, more amused. It stays in his wake, mixed with specks of powder, as he stomps away.

Amélie reaches out her fist. Andy grins, bumping it.

***

"Rosol, he is _arschloch_ , how do you say in English?"

"Wanker?" Andy offers.

"Yes, wanker, but, stronger."

"Who's a wanker?" Novak asks, leaning in the doorway between the bathroom and the locker room. He's dressed in his blue robe, with the Serbian flag embroiled on the back, below the word 'kralj' in big, block letters. 

His arms are crossed across his chest, the sleeves of the robe falling past his elbows. Andy's seen a lot of Novak while training, but rarely like this, confident and bared and just a little bit of nerves simmering under the surface of his skin. Andy swallows, feeling a rush of worry and matching nerves that he's never felt before his own matches.

Novak tilts his head, his eyebrows halfway up his forehead as he stares at Andy for a long moment, before shaking his head and closing his eyes, like it's taking effort to look away. "I'm a wanker?"

"Rosol," Boris corrects him, motioning to the medical table. He hands Andy the role of wrap and Andy steps forward, his hip pressed to the outside of Novak's thigh as he reaches for his hand.

He wraps slowly, holding Novak's hand loosely in his palm, reaching out with his mind and getting nothing. 

"He rile his opponents up, plays on their weak spots and exploits them with a grin on his face."

Novak shrugs, his fingers moving in Andy's. "That's how the match is played."

"I'm not talking about your lazy left elbow," Boris pushes. "He's going to have done his research. He's going to know things about you that you don't like to talk about."

Novak swallows.

Boris pulls him into a headlock, knocking their foreheads together, before pulling back and holding out Novak's gloves.

Andy follows and takes his seat in Novak's corner of the arena. Boris stays close to the ring, coaching Novak through the cheers and jeers of the crowd who seem, at least, pro-Novak to start.

The crowd begins to get restless, though, as Novak fights his way through the first few rounds mostly un-challenged. And when Andy moves forward to offer Novak a water bottle after the fifth, he hears Rosol taunt, loud enough for the closest spectators to hear, "How'd you learn to fight this weak? Beating up on your brothers? They mustn't have given much of a fight. No wonder they didn't make it."

Novak surges up from the stool, but Boris holds him down, his hands steady on Novak's shoulders. "Ignore him."

"He's talking about Marko and Djorde."

"He's trying to get under your skin."

"Well, he's succeeding."

"Don't let him," Boris orders, but Novak's eyes are burning and Andy's pretty sure it's a losing battle.

Novak wins the next round, but he lowers his guard down for a second too long and comes back to his corner with a cut under his eye and his chest heaving. 

He loses the next three rounds. 

"Raise your elbow," Boris orders, as Novak struggles to sip water between his heavy breaths.

Andy holds the water bottle still as Novak stares straight ahead, over Andy's shoulder.

Rosol chirps, "Whose dick did you have to suck to get out of that god-forsaken country anyway?"

Novak flinches.

The ref calls time and Andy pats Novak on the shoulder. "There's no shame in sucking cock," he offers, trying for light and funny and pretty sure that he makes it. "Might even be a reward in it if you're good enough."

Novak chokes, but when he stands and takes his stance, he's smiling.

He fights through the next round and, when he wins, he taps at his chest, pointing his glove towards Rosol as he jumps back to his corner.

He wins the next round and roars in Rosol's face.

Andy grins, even as he feels the crowd shifting and swaying behind him, liquored up and raring for a good fighting, teetering between Rosol and Novak, and Andy can't be sure where they'll land. Crowds always like a bad boy.

Boris must feel it too, at least a little, because he reaches out and squeezes Novak's shoulder. "Take it easy, kiddo."

Novak shrugs him off. "I'm gonna show him how it's done."

Boris steps back, crossing his arms and bringing his shoulder tight against Andy's.

"This could turn. Quickly," Andy warns.

Boris nods. "Be ready to run."

Novak wins the round and the match, and the ref holds up his gloved hand. Novak's grinning, happy and cocky. Andy can tell it's going to happen before it does, knows what Novak's about to do. And then Rosol growls something Andy can't hear but can certainly guess, and Novak stares right at him as he pumps his fists and then rips his shirt, beating his gloves against his bare chest as he roars his victory into the crowd.

Andy feels the storm gather in the back of his mind, as if a tornado is moving through the arena, picking up on the crowd's anger and aggression and dissatisfaction. They like a winner, sure, but they like a competitive match and they definitely don't like showboating.

Boris appears at Andy's elbow, calling for Novak to follow them, quickly, and Novak climbs through the ropes, pulling on his robe, a grin still on his face. 

"Nice match," Andy says, even as he steps in behind Novak, using that eerie calm to shield himself from the rush of the crowd's emotions.

"Thanks." Novak says. "He deserved a beating."

Andy nods, but doesn't respond. He bends his head against the strength of it all as the crowd balances on the edge of something dark and dangerous.

Lost in the sea, Andy hears it before he feels it. "Hey, Djokovic, why don't you win a match without cheating, eh?" Andy looks up, picks the spectator out of the crowd just as the beer bottle shatters at Novak's feet.

"Shit," Boris reaches for Novak, pulling him forward, away, into the locker room as quickly as he can.

Andy follows, closing and locking the door behind his back. He's breathing, hard, and his vision is blurring with tears as he tries to hold back the force of it.

"What was that?" Novak asks.

"That was your ego," Andy bites out, feeling that dark, dangerous, rushing tornado of emotions pushing under his skin. He holds it back. "Sorry."

Novak shrugs.

Boris throws Andy a water bottle before he helps Novak onto the medical table. There are three small, sharp shards of glass embedded in Novak's shin. Novak's skin is red.

Andy turns away.

***

"Drink this." Novak slips a tray of shots in front of Andy before he falls into the seat across from him, wincing. "It'll help with the headache."

"I doubt that."

"Can't hurt."

Andy's pretty sure it can.

Novak leans across the table. "Can you still feel them?"

"What?" Andy takes the first shot. "Who?"

"The crowd, with-" He waves his hand towards Andy's head.

Andy tips back three shots in a row. When he lowers his head, Novak's staring at him, his eyes big and red and wide. His hair is lighter, in the artificial light of the pub and he's biting the edge of his lip. He looks younger.

Andy's eyes go hazy as the alcohol takes root. It dulls the swirling emotions of the crowd still pounding through his head.

"I'm an empath," he admits.

Novak nods. "I know. Boris told me. I think Amélie told him."

Andy rolls his eyes. "So much for secrets."

Novak tilts his head, reaching for his first shot. "Was it meant to be? A secret?"

"Yes," Andy breathes.

"Why?" Novak asks, like he's really interested, like he really doesn't understand.

"Because we're dangerous."

"I don't know," Novak shrugs. "Kinda thought that crowd of normals was more dangerous than us tonight."

"You provoked them."

Novak doesn't deny it. "Still-"

And Andy can't deny that. He throws back another shot. He's lost count of how many he's had so far.

"Our powers," Novak continues, finally, "they're who we are. We shouldn't hide from that."

"And what are you, then?"

Novak's head snaps up, and Andy can read surprise all over his face even if he can't feel it. "You haven't figured it out?"

Andy shakes his head. The pub swirls and shatters, then coalesces again as a disconnected series of emotions from the patrons around them.

"Hey." Novak's at his side, his hand tight on Andy's elbow. "Let's get out of here, yeah?"

"I don't drink," Andy says, as explanation, as he lets Novak pull him up.

"Seems like a good policy," Novak agrees.

"I can hold my liquor," Andy argues, defiant, pushing against Novak's chest and putting his hand out to brace himself against the wall outside. "It's just- the empath thing, it gets, um, harder- just, more, you know?"

"I can see that." Novak reaches forward again and Andy doesn't push him away.

"If it isn't Djoker and his band of misfits." 

Andy's not likely to forget that voice anytime soon.

Novak turns on his heel, so quickly that Andy's vision blurs. He slumps against the brick wall, feeling weighed-down by the rush of Rosol's emotions.

"Don't talk about my gym," Novak bites out, between his teeth. "In fact, don't talk about anyone I've ever met."

"What? Afraid they can't defend themselves?"

"Every one of us could beat your ass. Easily." Novak folds his arms across his chest. "You're a lightweight. A never-has-been."

Rosol laughs, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it. It burns bright in the low light of the alley. He nods his chin at Andy. "I bet that one couldn't."

Andy uses the wall to pull himself up taller, straightening his shoulders against the onslaught of Rosol's disdain.

"Aren't you the one who's coached by a female coach? Fucking sissy."

Andy narrows his eyes. "You'd be lucky to have Amélie as a coach."

"Yeah," Rosol agrees, with a twisted grin. He reaches between his legs with his free hand. "I bet she rolls over every time you want, ehh? I'd like ass-on-demand like that. She must be good, if you keep her around."

Andy growls, lunging forward. He doesn't get far, as his head swims and he sees black spots at the edge of his vision.

Novak catches him, his hand warm and steadying on his back.

"I'll go anytime you want," he says, his fists already clenched.

Rosol drops his cigarette, twisting it under the toe of his sneaker. "Right now's good."

Andy opens his mouth to agree, but Novak cuts him off. "Tomorrow night, after the gym closes."

Rosol sneers, "see you then, faggots," and opens the door, slipping into the pub.

He leaves a crude cloud of scorn and disgust in his wake, and Andy's lost in it. He doesn't feel his knees buckle, he doesn't feel Novak pull him along, he doesn't register the alley or the street or the way Novak digs into his pockets to find the key to his apartment.

"Sorry," he whispers, when they're alone, in the quiet of his studio.

Novak shakes his head, dropping him onto the small, twin bed, sheets twisted and rumpled and probably pretty dirty because Andy can't remember the last time he washed them or if he's ever washed them. Novak sits on the edge of the bed, anyway, his fingers in Andy's hair, and Andy turns towards him, making a half-circle with his body around Novak's hips.

Andy reaches towards him, pulling at the nothingness until the arena crowd fades and the pub fades and Rosol fades and all that's left is calm and warmth and Andy's own emotions, raw and rough and his.

"What are you?" He breathes.

Novak smiles. "I block powers."

"Oh," Andy says, stupidly. "I should have figured that out."

"Probably," Novak agrees. "But you, um, haven't been around a lot of us, have you?"

Andy shakes his head. He thinks of Amélie, lets himself think of Rafa, and it's not as painful as it used to be. For the first time in months, Rafa feels like warmth and affection and determination, and Andy smiles a little ruefully. "Only a few."

"I can tell." Novak ducks his head, his eyes trained above Andy's, at where his hands are still carding through Andy's long, unruly curls. "You're embarrassed by them, aren't you?"

"My power?" Andy asks. Novak nods. "Yeah, um, a bit. They make me- Different. They're overwhelming, sometimes."

"Is it that bad, to be different?"

Andy doesn't know what to say to that.

"You need to stop being afraid," Novak says, softly, but with a hard, unwavering backbone to his words, "and start believing. In you and me and Boris and Amélie and whoever else we may find for our merry bunch of superheroes."

Andy snorts into his pillow. It jostles his head and he groans.

"Sorry." Novak belays his apology with a chuckle.

"Twat." Andy punches Novak's hip, rising onto one elbow, smiling. "Are you going to kiss me, or-?"

Novak twitches. He pulls his hand from Andy's hair and inches away so that he's barely balancing on the edge of the bed.

Andy's stomach goes cold and sits up. "Sorry, I didn't mean to- I didn't want to imply, I just thought-" He pulls his knees to his chest, dropping his head and pulling at his hair. He hasn't had to do this in months, but the pain is good, comforting, grounding.

Novak's shaking his head, his voice cracking as he says, "You don't really want this."

Andy looks up, his hands still buried in his hair. "I do. I've never felt as calm as I do around you."

Novak flinches. "That's not me. That's my power."

"It's not," Andy insists.

Novak closes his eyes. "That calm- Andy, that's you. That's you, when you're not taking everyone else's emotions as your own."

Andy knows that isn't true. Andy knows the chaotic swirl of his own emotions, angry and volatile and always just on the edge. When he's around Novak, his edges feel smoother, calmer, like he used to be, around Jamie and his mum and his dad, around the smells and feel of Dunblane. Novak feels like home.

"It's not just me," he says. "It's you- it's what you mean to me."

Novak flinches again.

Andy sighs, leaning back in his bed and closing his eyes against the haze in his head and the nausea in his stomach. "I'm sorry I asked you. I've really had a lot to drink."

"Yeah," Novak agrees, swallowing.

"I'll have forgotten by morning."

"Yeah," Novak says, again. His voice breaks on the word.

Andy pretends not to notice.

He feels the mattress shift as Novak stands. "You should get your rest, you have a fight with Rosol tomorrow."

Andy groans, making a vast effort to care more about his upcoming fight than Novak's rejection. "Amélie's going to kill me."

"She sure is." Novak laughs, and it's not good, really, but Andy can tell that he's trying. He's grateful for that. "I was kinda thinking we wouldn't tell her."

Andy nods. "Probably a good idea." He's starting to fall under the combined efforts of the shots and his emotional exhaustion.

He's pretty sure he imagines the quick, warm, chapped kiss on his forehead before the door clicks shut behind Novak.

***

Andy wakes in the morning with a splitting headache and a list of regrets a mile long. 

He makes a thick, dark cup of coffee, takes four aspirin, pulls a beanie over his unruly, unwashed hair and skypes Jamie.

"You look awful," Jamie greets happily.

"Yeah," Andy agrees, vaguely, not sure which aspect of his appearance, specifically, Jamie is referencing, but reaching up to trace the dark bags under his eyes anyway. They seem the most obvious, and the most innocuous.

Jamie frowns. "Where'd you get the shiner?"

"Oh." Andy'd forgotten all about the bruise darkening from green to purple on his jaw. "It was, um, a fight. I missed a block."

"Probably shouldn't do that."

"Probably not."

"You okay?" Jamie asks, his face softening.

Andy's glad that he can't feel Jamie's emotions through Skype. He pulls his knee to his chest and rests his chin on it. "Not really, no."

"Wanna talk about it?"

Andy shrugs.

"Mum got in a fight with Sandy. You know, the new neighbor who moved in across the street with those three cats?" Jamie says, smoothly.

Andy reaches for his mug, sipping it slowly, so grateful for his older brother.

"The cats have been getting into mum's garden and eating all the carrots. Not the tomatoes or the beets or any of the gross things." Jamie makes a face and Andy almost laughs. "Even Sandy's cats can't do me a favor," Jamie sighs, dramatically.

Andy takes another sip. His head is starting to clear.

"Anyway, mum went out last week with a bee bee gun, the one you got for your sixth birthday, yeah? Only, Sandy didn't know it wasn't a real gun and she called the cops. I had to go down and bale her out."

Andy laughs, for real this time. 

"Yeah, yeah, laugh away. Cost me all the pounds I'd been saving from the extras lawn I've been mowing, too. I was hoping to finally ask Alejandra out, take her someplace nice, maybe even a place I have to wear a tie."

Andy raises an eyebrow. "This is serious, then?"

Jamie shrugs. "I haven't asked her, but, yeah, been thinking about it for a while now."

_Years_ , Andy thinks, but doesn't say. "I'll send you some money. I've a little saved."

"Good. You owe me, leaving me here to deal with mum all by myself."

Jamie means it as a tease, but it tugs at the raw, aching place deep in Andy's chest.

Jamie's face twists, dropping his light, easy tone. "Andy-"

"This power I have," Andy interrupts, "do you think it's meant for good or bad?"

"I think that depends on the man wielding it."

"Yeah." Andy sighs. Rosol's sneering, crude words echo through his head. He straightens his back. "A friend told me I should stop being afraid of my power and start believing in it."

"You have a smart friend."

"It's-" Andy picks at the fraying edges of the paisley tablecloth. "They're not normal, right? And maybe I should just learn how to block them, hide them, only use them if I need them." Andy's brow furrows. "Maybe not even then."

"Maybe," Jamie agrees. "But maybe you should embrace them, yeah? They're a part of you, and maybe you should stop denying that?"

Andy flinches. "Maybe I'm not meant for good."

Jamie shakes his head, his own curls shaking around his ears. "No, no, I don't buy that, Andy, not for a second. If you want to be a good man, then use them for good. Simple as that."

Andy snorts. "Simple, right."

"If you want it be, then yeah, simple." Jamie shrugs. He waits for Andy to say something, then, when Andy doesn't, he starts, lightly, as if he's thinking as he's saying it. "You know, you talk about this as a burden, placed on you by some higher power or sommit. Wanna know how I've always thought of it?"

Andy nods.

"I've always been jealous of you. You're different, special. You got out of this god-forsaken town, you're exploring the world, and-" He holds up his hand to stave off Andy's protestations. "And I know it's not easy, but, at least you have the opportunity, yeah?"

Andy's head is starting to hurt again and he reaches for his mug of cooling coffee. "You always were jealous of me."

"Think what you want, but I'm mum's favorite."

Andy snorts. "Keep thinking that."

"I will, thank you."

"I've gotta get to the gym, but, Jamie? Thanks."

"No problem, little brother."

Andy holds up his middle finger, then shuts his laptop screen. The sun is shining through his blinds, and Amélie had told him to sleep in after the fight last night, but Andy's pretty sure she didn't mean all morning.

He strips on his way to the shower, and tries not to think about Novak and how easy it would have been to kiss him.

Instead, he thinks about his own fight ahead. He thinks about calling it off. There are reasons Amélie hasn't found him a match yet, good reasons, reasons Andy believes in. He has a moral code, put in place by his mother and strengthened by his years in Barcelona. He can hear Toni Nadal in his ear, talking about right and wrong, good and evil, about keeping their powers hidden from a world not ready for them yet. Powers meant to be used quietly, anonymously, and only, only ever when faced with clear and present danger.

In Andy's other ear, though, he hears Rosol. He hears the derision in his voice, remembers the way he snarled over Amélie's name, feels the contempt like it's his own.

Andy thinks about good and evil, the kind that grows quietly, insidiously, unacknowledged in the minds of men and women.

Andy thinks of Novak, of Serbia, of the family he may never see again. He thinks of Amélie, her strength and her humor and the way she looks at Sylvie across the gym when she thinks Andy isn't watching. He thinks of his classmates, back in Scotland, who never got the chance to debate ethics or even ask for a kiss. 

The water beats warm and harsh on the back of his neck and Andy stands there for long minutes as his moral code breaks, shatters, and coalesces into something a little stronger, something a little edgier, something a little more him.

He stands there until a fist pounds, loud and harsh, on the other side of the wall. "Save some hot water for the rest of us, arschficker."

Andy jumps, scurries out of the shower, and hangs his head when he finally arrives at the gym and Amélie calls, from across the ring, "nice of you to join us. Get in there."

Novak pulls away from Boris and Andy pulls his beanie lower over his wet hair. He tries not to notice how Novak avoids his eyes, even as he pulls Andy's hands close to him, ostensibly to wrap them, but really to lean in, to whisper, "you don't have to do this."

"I'm not a coward," Andy bites out, his teeth clenched hard enough for Novak to hear, as close as they are.

"Not calling you one." Novak wraps the tape too tightly. "Don't do something stupid to prove it to me."

Andy pulls his hand back, unwraps it with jerky movements, making sure to catch Novak's ribs with his elbow. "Not about you." _At least, not all about you_. "Rosol's an asshole. Someone has to teach him a lesson."

Novak bites at his lip, bouncing on the edges of his feet. Like he's nervous. Like he cares. "It doesn't have to be you," he whispers, finally.

Andy thinks of Amélie, of Jamie, of Novak. He shrugs, finishing his wraps and grabbing his gloves. "If not me, then who?"

Novak still doesn't look at him.

***

Amélie's still not really speaking to him when she leaves for the day, dropping a rag over Andy's shoulder with a short, clipped, "make up for the hours you missed this morning."

Andy's almost grateful for the reason to stay at the gym later than usual. "Sure," he agrees.

"If you clean all the mats in the back, I might let you use them tomorrow."

It's an olive branch. Andy grabs it. "Sure," he repeats, this time with a small smile.

She shakes her head, turning away with a smile of her own, muttering, "teenagers," under her breath.

Andy pushes a wave of indignation at her and she laughs, ruffling his hair hard enough to hurt.

_You're getting good at projecting._

He ducks out from under her. "Get outta my head."

"Yeah, yeah." She pulls away, slipping on her jacket. "Boris said you made a good second yesterday. We should start thinking about getting you a match of your own."

Andy feels guilt twist through his chest, and he pushes at it, buries it deep enough for him to fake excitement. "I'd like that."

She laughs. "Thought you might. Good night."

"Night," he calls back.

When she's gone, he digs deep into himself to find the outrage he felt last night, letting Rosol's words echo through his head until he's chased away all traces of guilt.

***

Novak doesn't try to talk him out of it.

Novak doesn't give him any last minute pointers.

Novak doesn't even say goodbye. When Andy finishes with the mats in the back storage room, he comes out to find that the lights are off and the air is still, like Novak had left hours ago, without so much as a second thought to Andy's impending fight.

Andy flips on the light switch and freezes.

"Thought you were gonna pussy out," Rosol drawls from where he's leaning against the lockers, his hands pushed deep into his pockets.

"How long have you been here?"

Rosol shrugs, nodding at the rag thrown over Andy's shoulder. "Long enough to know who does the women's work around here."

"There's no shame in an honest day's work."

"I suppose," Rosol says, like he doesn’t suppose at all.

"So, we gonna do this, or just talk about it?"

"Just a little foreplay to make it worth my while. God knows you're not gonna last long enough in the ring to get my off." He pulls at his dick and Andy looks away.

"What? That little thing? Wouldn't take more than a minute or two."

Rosol barks out a laugh. "I almost like you."

"No reason to be insulting now," Andy shoots back as he turns to dig through his locker, coming up with the match bag he'd stowed away when he started training with Amélie months ago. "I'm gonna go change. Other locker room's over there."

Andy takes his bag into their main locker room, frowning at the slightly damp, moldy smell when he opens the duffle bag. He pulls on the shiny silver shorts anyway, and hops onto the table to put on his ankle braces.

"Let me."

Andy freezes where he's leaning over to grab his gloves.

"Andy." Novak breathes, quietly, through his nose. "You didn't think I was going to let you do this alone, did you?"

Andy unfreezes, shrugs. "Kinda thought you might."

"Someday, you're going to have to trust someone."

Andy thinks of the emotions he feels every day, the greed and deception and anger. He thinks of Jamie, Rafa, Amélie. "Trust my power. Trust people. It's one or the other."

"Doesn't have to be." Novak pushes Andy's legs apart, standing between them and reaching for the gloves. 

Andy holds out his hand and Novak takes it. He's gentle as he wraps, doing it slowly, carefully, reverently, so different than he was that morning. Andy leans into it. "You don't trust me."

Novak shakes his head with a rueful smile. "Get through this fight, then we can talk about it, okay?"

Andy shrugs, like it's not a big deal. Like he hasn't been out of the ring for months, like Rosol isn't a hell of a boxer.

Novak squeezes his fingers.

"What made you change your mind?"

Novak helps Andy into his gloves, pulling them over Andy's wrapped hands and closing off their point of contact. "Figured you were gonna do it with or without me. Would rather it be with me."

"Me too," Andy admits.

Novak drops his head, presses a chaste, close-mouthed kiss to Andy's mouth before stepping back, offering a hand to help Andy hop down. "Ready?"

Andy nods.

***

Andy feels the blow to his head distantly, like it's happening to someone else. His eyes go fuzzy, and he's pretty sure he blacks out for the half-a-second it takes to hit the mat. He hears Novak distantly, telling him to "get up" and to "kick Rosol's fat ass" and to "sleep when he's fucking dead."

He gets to his knees on the four count – Rosol is gracious enough to count, loudly and scornfully, in Andy's ear - and he gets to his feet on seven. His head still doesn't feel right, though, and his eyes are swimming with the pain. His left hip throbs where he hit the deck, and his right wrist is at least sprained. He reaches out, grabbing for Rosol's emotions but finding his head, instead.

It's not much of a chokehold and Rosol twists, sending pain screaming through Andy's injured wrist. Andy bends over, clutching onto Rosol's shoulders and leaving himself vulnerable to three, quick, illegal jabs to his kidneys.

The pain is excruciating.

Novak yells in protest, but there's no one there to hold Rosol accountable. No one but Andy himself.

Instinctively, Andy reaches out, looking for the crowd, finding only Novak and his calm quiet. While Andy flounders, Rosol gets in two more quick punches to the right side of his head.

With a roar, Andy digs deep. His mind reels away from Novak's and his power settles on the knot of emotions he's packed away, deep inside himself, hidden under years of putting everyone's emotions above his own. His family's, his friends', his lovers' - well, lover singular – the emotions of every stranger he ever met at pubs and gyms and on street corners. He feels like he's been teetering on a knife's edge since he was nine years old and felt those first emotions that weren't his own.

Rage and grief and concern.

Rage and grief and concern.

Rage and grief and-

He grabs onto them, twists them into something dark and sinisterly self-protective. He lashes out with this new thing, this combination of everything he's ever felt and everything he's ever suppressed, whipping Rosol with its strength and ferocity, sending Rosol reeling against the ropes.

Rosol doesn't have time to raise his gloves as Andy stalks forward. Andy doesn't feel any pain; he feels strong, embattled, a power behind his punches that Rosol can't, possibly, defend against.

Andy doesn't know how many punches he throws after Rosol's out. He doesn't know how long Novak's been calling him, or exactly when his voice switched from prideful cheering to worry. He doesn't register any of it, until strong fingers wrap around his wrist , steady and calm, pushing Andy's emotions until they fade into the background, growing hazy and light until they're gone, entirely, and all he feels is the pain in his back and his head.

He turns, his fists still raised, feeling a little guilty when Novak flinches. "I'm not going to hit you," he offers. His knees are shaking and he can't think past the pain in his now-surely-broken wrist.

"That's a relief." Novak still pulls him in, catching his arms between their chests and holding him in a deadlock, like he's something dangerous that Novak has to defuse.

"Let me go."

"Not gonna happen." Novak says, his voice low and hot in Andy's ear. "At least not 'til we're someplace safe."

Andy wants to protest, but his head feels thick and slow, and he's pretty sure his concussion is setting in. His head feels warm and he reaches out desperately for something to ground himself, to lock his emotions onto so that they'll stop bouncing around his head.

Novak's frustratingly empty as ever.

Andy whines, low and embarrassing, and Novak shifts his grip, taking Andy under his arm and leading him to his corner, before letting him sink painfully to the mat.

"I hurt."

"I know."

"I mean-" Andy swallows. He doesn't mean physically, although that's certainly true, but it's been years since he's been so utterly alone in his own emotions. He's worked very hard at covering them with others', drowning himself in everyone else's brightest and darkest moments, and now they're gone. Vanished, with his own rage and frustration, lost in the punches he laid into Rosol's body. 

"I know what you mean."

Andy shakes his head. "Did I-" He swallows, not quite able to ask if he _killed_ another man. "Is he going to be okay?"

Novak nods. "A little worse for wear, but, he had it coming to him. Everyone knows Rosol's an ass."

Andy drops his head between his knees, burying his hands in his hair and ignoring the agony in his back and his wrist. "No one deserves what I did to him."

Novak kneels in front of him, reaching forward. Andy twists out of his way, crying out at the pull in his lower back.

"Shit, okay, let me get Rosol outta here, then I'm gonna take a look at you." Novak gets up, and Andy tracks him through the haze in his head and the spots dotting his vision. He watches as Novak dumps a bucket of water over Rosol's head, watches as Rosol splutters back to consciousness spewing the same vitriol as he was when he lost it.

"You're going to regret this, you and your pussy coach," Rosol spits as he pushes away from Novak's help and climbs out of the rink. He's moving slowly, and he's going to have bruises across his side, but he looks okay. He certainly looks better than Andy feels.

Andy drops his head again, pulls at the ends of his hair.

"What, you got nothing to say for yourself?"

It hurts too much to shake his head and he can feel, through Rosol's emotions, that these new threats are a desperate attempt to cover his humiliation. He won't come after Andy or Amélie again. "Said everything I have to say," Andy says, without looking up.

He hears the door shut behind Rosol, and then he feels Novak crouch in front of him. His calf is still bandaged; courtesy of his own fight with Rosol yesterday. Andy reaches out, touching it gently with the tips of his fingers, grateful that, whatever price it took, Rosol is out of their lives.

"You look bad," Novak says, and Andy hears humor and worry and amusement and pride, and his head swims with it. "Come on, you can stay upstairs tonight."

Novak helps him up and he stumbles, leaning on Novak as his head swims.

"Shit." Novak's looking at Andy's back, where his skin is already purpling in the place Rosol had landed those three illegal jabs. "That asshole deserved everything he got."

Andy can't argue with that.

Andy can't argue with anything.

His head really fucking hurts.

***

When Andy wakes up, his world is on fire. His wrist aches, his lower back feels bruised and swollen, and his head is full and aching and burning with the effort to comprehend his surroundings.

The window is open, sounds and smells and light coming through, bombarding Andy's senses. He gets up to close it, but detours to the bathroom where he's sick in the toilet rather than on Novak's worn carpet. 

The tile is cool under Andy's legs and he clings to it, even as he shivers with the chill.

Slowly, he comes back to himself, at least enough so that he can clamber into the shower and sit under the spray. He lets it pound against his head and into his eyes as he takes stock of his injuries. Cuts around his eyes, already starting to scab over. A deep, tender bruise on his scalp that pulses with his heartbeat as the water beats against it. His wrist, twinging every time he tightens and loosens his fingers in his hair, pulling, tugging, desperately trying to find stable mental ground and failing. 

As the water starts to cool, he reaches out to turn it off. He's still dressed in his boxers and nothing else, and he leaves them, wet and heavy, on the bathroom floor. Novak doesn't have much - a bed, a ratty couch, an old TV connected to rabbit-ears, a worn wooden table, and a rickety dresser that is filled with sweats that Andy struggles into.

He's halfway downstairs before he realizes what a terrible idea this is. He's resting his weight almost entirely on the banister and, long before he's halfway down, the sounds of fighting and the smell of sweat are enough to make him sick in the corner of the staircase. 

And when he opens his eyes, he sees waves of color flowing towards him, lines of reds and golds, purples and blues and every shade of green, like the world's most head-ache inducing rainbow. 

He lowers his head, pulls his beanie further over his eyes, and has no idea how long it takes him to finish the last few steps. 

"You shouldn't be out of bed," he hears, and he sees a flash of purple. 

The next thing he registers, he's sitting on one of the benches, Novak crouching in front of him, still dressed in practice gear. Boris is sitting next to him, holding him up, and Amélie's standing over Novak, her arms crossed over her chest, emanating a deep, angry shade of red.

"Why are you red?"

Her frown deepens. "How should I know? Seems I don’t know much about what you're up to these days."

Andy flinches. It tugs at his wrist and he cradles it against his chest. "Sorry."

"Don't be sorry, kid." Boris's arm tightens around him, and Andy sees a warm turquoise. "You're not doing something right until someone hates you."

"I don't hate him." Amélie sighs, looking at Andy with a pinker shade of red. "I'm just disappointed that you felt you couldn't come to me."

Andy forces himself not to flinch again. 

"Wasn't talkin' about you," Boris rumbles. 

Andy squints his eyes. "You're orange."

Boris looks affronted. "I am not."

Novak laughs. "Maybe you shouldn hold back a little on that spray tan."

"It's prescription," Boris argues, loosening his grip enough that Andy sways. 

Amélie crouches in front of him, her hand gentle on his knee, ignoring Boris. "What color is Novak?"

Andy frowns. "Novak-colored."

Amélie hums, then stands and slaps Novak's shoulder. "Help me get him to my office, hmm?"

Andy forgets to ask until much later. After Amélie's set his wrist and wrapped his lower back and is patching up the cuts on his face. 

"What do they mean?" He asks, his body feeling better even if his head is still heavy and muffled. "The colors."

She sighs, her hands stilling around his head. "It means you've got a long recovery in front of you."

She starts to pull back, but Andy wraps the fingers of his good hand around her wrist. "The things Rosol was saying about you-"

"I know," she says, gently. "Novak told me."

"He deserved what he got."

"Probably," she agrees. "Did you?"

"Probably," he admits.

She smiles, the first real smile he's seen all day, and he feels something tight and painful loosen in his chest. "I don't need you to defend me. I hear shit like that all the time."

Andy starts to shrug, but stops at the pulls and aches. "You knew this would happen, didn't you? It's why I had to force you to train me."

Her smile softens and she moves to sit next to him on the bench in her office, pulling his head towards her so that she can take a look at the bruise on his scalp. "Among other things. You can't stop all the assholes in the world, Andy."

"I can try."

She's quiet for long moments, and then she says, into the mess of his mind, _yeah, I suppose you can_.

It's a concession, he figures. Probably the best he's going to get.

***

His body heals quickly. His mind, not so much.

"You have synesthesia," Amélie tells him, finally, a few days after the fight, when he's strong enough to move out of Novak's apartment and across the street to his own. 

He hasn't seen Novak since that first morning. He's not sure where Novak's been sleeping, or eating, or spending his free time, but Andy's still not feeling well enough to be too guilty about it yet.

"You damaged your emotional architecture during the fight," she continues. "And now your mind's struggling to integrate your power into your senses, and it's getting its signals crossed."

"Oh," Andy breathes. "I'm seeing feelings as colors."

"Yep."

"No wonder I'm dizzy all the time."

She laughs, dropping him onto his own bed and leaving his duffle bag next to him. "It's a miracle, really, that you're functioning at all."

Andy taps at his head. "Strong mental fortitude."

She snorts. "This time, maybe, when we rebuild you right."

"There was nothing wrong with me last time," he persists. 

"You're feeling colors," she points out.

"I beat Rosol," he argues.

"At what cost?"

Andy shrugs. He's still not sure that kicking Rosol's ass in exchange for a few mixed senses is the worst trade-off.

***

Andy groans when Amélie uses her key to enter a few days later, right as the sun is starting to set behind the blinds and Andy's complementing a nap.

"You think I don't have better things to do than be here, either?" She asks with a groan of her own, quiet and gentle, and Andy's pretty certain that she means the opposite. She pulls her chair next to his bedside and holds her hand out.

Andy takes it, wrapping his fingers around her forearm and bracing himself.

Amélie's spent hours by his bedside, pushing her thoughts past the kaleidoscope of colors in his mind, thinking "happy" and "yellow" at him so he can re-align his power and his senses, painstakingly and meticulously re-orienting his power to understand "yellow" and "happy" as the bright, warm feeling that settles deep in his chest.

"I got it," he breathes, hours later, opening his eyes to see the room spinning and blotchy. He's sweating and he sways, only Amélie's hands keeping him from toppling to the floor. 

"Sorry," he whispers past dry, cracked lips, but she just shakes her head, hands him a Gatorade and orders him to drink it all. He takes it. His hands are shaking.

"It's hard work," she says, conversationally, as she holds his hands straight, "rebuilding your emotional architecture."

Andy shakes his head and his vision swims and his stomach rolls. He pushes the bottle back to her and lies back on his bed, feeling weak and pathetic and-

"Andy," she chastises, pulling him out of the cycle of his thoughts.

He glares at the back of his eyelids, wishing he could glare at her. "Why is this happening?"

He feels a gentle, cool hand in his hair.

"You've spent years layering your own emotional framework on top of everyone else's."

Andy thinks of the people he's cared about. Jamie and his laidback attitude. Rafa and his love for life and his mental fortitude. Amélie and her generosity and her willingness to take Andy in, with all of his faults. When he looks into the wreckage of his mind, he can see bits of all of them in the rubble, the foundations that he had thought were so firm and steady.

"I used them," Andy whispers, aghast.

"Borrowed," Amélie corrects. "Your power manifested before you were old enough to develop your own emotional architecture. That happens, sometimes, in the wake of trauma."

"The shooting," Andy says, with awe, thinking back to how he pulled at Jamie that day, crouched in the cemetery dirt with so much grief all around him. "I was overwhelmed, and I took- From Jamie-"

Amélie nods. "It worked, too, but it was never going to be as sturdy as what you create, yourself. So when you called on your power to defeat Rosol-"

"It shattered," Andy finishes, because he can feel it now, the framework in shards and pieces on the floor of his mind.

"Right," Amélie nods, a smile in her voice, projecting happiness and something purple and a cool blue. "Now we have to rebuild your emotional architecture with your own framework."

"So, this won't happen again?"

He can feel her hands pause in his hair. "It shouldn't."

"Comforting."

"Drink your Gatorade."

***

"I'm not great at fixing psychic architecture," Boris says the first Wednesday after Andy's injury. "But I make a mean Goulash."

"I'll take that," Andy says, standing back and letting Boris in with his armful of soup pot. 

It's good. Thick and hearty and well-seasoned. 

"Good for rebuilding bones," Boris tells him, after his third bowl.

"You must have a lot of broken ones, then," Andy laughs, pushing back his nearly-empty first serving.

Boris reaches over to flick the back of his head. 

"Ow. Injured fighter here."

Boris grunts, his face growing serious as he holds out his hand. "Let me see that wrist."

***

"I could come to Berlin, help you out."

"No you can't." Andy frowns into the Skype camera until his vision blurs and his head starts to ache. "You only just asked Alex for a date."

"She can wait," Jamie insists. 

"Nah." Andy reaches for the bottle of advil Amélie always leaves by his bedside. "Who am I to stand between true love?"

"My brother."

Andy downs somewhere between four and a handful. "Well, yeah, but, I'm okay."

Jamie tilts his head, blurring the video momentarily. Andy has to close his eyes against the wave of dizziness. "You don't look it."

"I'm just- my power, it's wonky, but I'm working through it." Andy pauses, then amends, "Amélie and I are working through it."

Jamie sighs. "I'm glad she's there. And Boris and Novak and-"

Andy fidgets.

"Andy?"

Andy sighs. "It's nothing, a'right? Amélie and Boris have been wonderful."

"And Novak?"

"He, ahh, hasn't been around much. He's been busy, yeah, and I sort of did this really stupid thing. Before the fight."

"What's new?" Jamie deadpans.

"I sort of- well, no, I did- ask him to kiss me."

"Way to bury the lead," Jamie crows. 

"We didn't-" Andy's head is pounding, his vision filled with brightly-colored dots. "He said no."

"Is he an idiot?"

Andy raises an eyebrow, motioning at the bruises still livid on his face. "I'm not such a catch."

Jamie scoffs. "You are the most stubborn, frustrating, sensitive guy I've ever known. If Novak can't see that?" He shrugs. 

Andy smiles, although he's pretty sure it comes across as more of a grimace. "Thanks."

"Are you sure you don't want me to come? I could beat his ass for you."

"You really couldn't."

"I could," Jamie protests, hurt. Then adds, "I could if Amélie agrees to help."

Andy chuckles. 

"She would, too. You know it."

Andy can't really argue with that. 

"I can tell your head hurts. You get that line between your eyes."

"Yeah," Andy admits, not wanting to lose Jamie but pretty sure he'll lose his stomach if he doesn't end this soon. "It's the computer screen. It aggravates the headaches."

"Yeah, well, call next time you feel up to it. Anytime, alright?"

Andy nods, but cuts off the motion halfway through. He wants to wish Jamie good luck with Alex, he wants to thank Jamie for being here, for lending Andy his emotional architecture for so long, but Andy's stomach protests and he closes the screen quickly before bolting to the bathroom.

***

Boris's visits become a thing. Every Wednesday, they watch the night's fights on Andy's crackling old TV, with bowls of stew, while Boris works Andy through his physical therapy. 

"See that?" Boris asks, nodding at the TV as he stretches Andy's wrist. It's nearly healed now, the brace mostly for show and the muscles feeling almost strong enough to try a glove again. 

Andy looks back at the TV. 

"That combination. Left jab, feint with his back foot, then a cross. You could do that. When your head's back on straight, I'm going to have Amélie up your fitness regimen. Balance is all about the core." He pats Andy's stomach, under the ratty t-shirt he hasn't bothered to wash much over the last few weeks. 

Andy shies away, getting up from the table to grab two beers that he definitely shouldn't be drinking. He hands one to Boris.

"So," he starts, trying for casual and failing when he has to pause for a long draw of the beer before he can continue. "Have you- I mean, of course you've seen Novak, but-"

Boris eyes him for a moment, before he says, slowly, "Novak's fine."

"Oh." Andy had known that, really. Boris would have told him if something had happened, but it still hurts to hear that Novak's absence is pre-meditated and purposeful. 

Boris pulls another couple beers from the fridge and passes one to Andy. "Nole's an idiot. Doesn't know what he's missing."

Boris is staring at the beer, but Andy thinks – hopes – it's Boris's blessing.

***

Amélie gives her own blessing a few days later, when she practically orders him into public to "test your new emotional architecture."

It still feels shaky to Andy. His power feels more like a color-wheel cheat sheet than anything else, but Amélie's pretty insistent that he's ready. 

"Choose someplace crowded," she adds, with a shrug, casual, like Andy hasn’t spent the last couple of months in his small studio apartment with two visitors and a few Skype calls as his only connections to the outside world. "Why walk when you can run?"

"Because it's safer."

Amélie doesn't deem that with more than a glare on her way out the door. 

She doesn’t come back the next night. 

Or the night after. 

When Wednesday rolls around and Boris doesn’t stop by, either, Andy gives up the pretense, takes a shower, and puts on sneakers for the first time since his concussion.

Getting out of his building is as bad as he had feared, and he has to square his shoulders against the colors leaking out from under his neighbors' doors as he makes his way, slowly, down the rickety staircase. At least his back is almost completely healed.

When he gets to the street, it's even worse. Windy and cold and crowded with people and colors and emotions, swirling, swirling, swirling-

Andy stops in the first doorway, crouching with his back bent against the onslaught, gripping the doorjamb with white knuckles as his mind struggles to make sense of all the input. It misfires and loops, catching on colors and emotions and mixing them until he’s tasting yellow and seeing frustration and smelling the deep green shade of greed.

He closes his eyes, focusing on his new emotional architecture, untested as it is. The foundations are his - his own anger and disappointment and fear and happiness – and they're sturdy, even if what he's built on top of them is still shaky and new. He pulls at them, uses them, until his power settles and stops misfiring.

"Hey, buddy, you okay?"

Andy feels a hand on his shoulder, worry and disgust coming through both in emotions and shades of greys and blues, and he shies away. "Yeah, I’m fine."

"Sure." The guy pulls back, walks away quickly, and Andy tries not to think about what he looks like, huddled on the street, his coat pulled tight around his shaking, sweating body.

He rises, as inconspicuously as he can, and jogs the rest of the way to the pub across from the gym. He reminds himself that he has both Amélie and Boris’s support – at least, as much support as they’ll ever give him on this – as he pushes open the door and is assaulted by a rush of colors and emotions and sounds.

Instinctively, he reaches out for the oasis of quiet calm and latches on.

Andy closes his eyes, feeling good, calm, centered, for the first time in months, and when he opens them, he can see Novak, sitting at a table with a few of the guys from the gym.

When Andy enters, he twists in his chair, and his eyes are anything but quiet or calm.

Andy stares at him for longer than he should, before he pulls his mind away and hitches himself into a seat at the bar. He's already exhausted, from the walk and the mental energy he exerted on the street, and he leans his elbows on the countertop, dropping his head into his hands.

"What can I get you?"

"Whatever's on tap."

The bartender passes over a pint and Andy reaches for it, their hands brushing in a flash of pale pink and concern. Andy frowns.

"You okay? You don't look so good."

"Yeah," Andy says, to the question but also in agreement. "Been a long day."

"Been a long year." He holds out his hand. "I'm Carlos."

Andy only hesitates a moment before he takes the hand, but all he gets is a warm flush of interest. "Spanish?" He guesses.

Carlos smiles, his cheeks a little red. "How'd you know?"

"I spent a little while in Barcelona. The accent's distinctive."

"It is," Carlos agrees. "What were you doing in Barcelona?" He rolls his 'r's and slurs his 'c's in a way that's so achingly familiar Andy has a stupid, momentary need to call Rafa, just to hear him, just to feel that surge of good will Rafa carries around with him.

He lets it pass as Carlos starts cleaning the glasses in front of where Andy's sitting. They already look pretty clean – cleaner, really, than the rag he's using – and Andy has half-a-mind to let him down easy and early. Andy can feel Novak's eyes, though, baring into the back of his neck, and Andy's too tired and frustrated and hurt to stop this before it starts.

"Training," he says.

"Training," Carlos repeats, like it's not-quite-a-question.

Andy takes a long draw of his beer, wincing as it settles straight into the back of his mind as an angry, pulsing headache. He puts his pint down, carefully, and repeats, "training."

Carlos laughs, throwing his head back, his long hair curling around his shoulders. Andy swallows, smiling indulgently as he translates Carlos's halo of reds and oranges as arousal. Andy feels a surprising answering spark of his own.

Carlos's eyes widen and his smile reaches into the crinkles at the sides of his eyes. "Shot?" He asks, pushing up the edges of his sleeves to show off the stretch and pull of his arms as he reaches for a top-shelf bottle of bourbon.

Andy holds out his hand to hold the glass steady, watching as the liquor splatters over his fingers. He tips it back, feeling Carlos's arousal rise in darkening shades. He drops the glass back to the table, before raising his fingers to suck off the lingering drops, feeling his own rise to meet Carlos's.

Carlos chuckles. Andy sees a flash of dark blue within the reds and oranges and, as he reaches for it, meaning only to convert it to something lighter, more pleasant, his power stutters and protests and he sways to the side, his vision blurring and going dark around the edges.

Carlos stops laughing and leans across the counter to try and catch him. But a strong, familiar hand is already grasping at his elbow, another arm twisting around his waist and steadying him on the barstool.

"Nice of you to show up," Andy bites out as his mind struggles to right itself.

Novak's chest stiffens behind him and his fingers tighten around Andy's wrist.

Carlos is still leaning across the counter and he's frowning. "You okay?"

Andy waves him off. "I'm fine. Head rush."

"Sure," Carlos agrees, slowly, pulling the bottle of bourbon away as if Andy might try something stupid again. But Andy's gotten the message: alcohol and his apparently-not-as-healed-as-Amélie-seems-to-think concussion do not mix. "You really don't look so great. Can I call you a cab?"

"I've got him," Novak rumbles.

Carlos turns to Andy. "I can get rid of him, if you'd like."

Andy wishes he could say _yes_ , but Novak's here and he's warm and he's _touching_ Andy. Andy hates himself, a little, for still wanting this, for being more confused and hurt than angry. "I know him," Andy admits.

Carlos looks torn between pushing and taking Andy's word, but he doesn't fight it when Novak leads Andy to an open table. It's in the corner, lit in shadows to ease the ache in Andy's head and secluded enough that they can speak freely.

It's made for one, and their knees bump under the tabletop. Novak presses forward, into Andy rather than pulling away.

Andy sighs, wrapping his hands around his pint glass even though he has no intention of drinking any more of it. "You can't do this. You don't get to disappear for weeks, and then show up like nothing's happened."

"I didn't show up," Novak points out, much too reasonably, even though, now that he's closer, Andy can see how much deeper the tired lines are around his eyes and mouth.

"Amélie made me," Andy grumbles. "Said I was ready and should test it in a crowd."

"And you chose a bar?" Novak doesn’t add _this bar_ , but Andy hears it.

"Been awhile." Andy shrugs. "I missed it."

"Sometimes," Novak says, slowly, with a little chuckle, "you really are very British."

"Scottish," Andy corrects, automatically. Then, because Novak's looking fond and amused and Andy can read that, now, with the benefit of his new emotional architecture, and it doesn't make any sense, "I've been going over it, again and again. I've had a lot of free time-"

Novak ducks his head.

"You kissed me, before the fight, and you let me stay in your bed, afterwards. You slept _next to me_ , but then I woke up alone and you just-" Andy takes a deep, shuddering breath. "You never visited. It's been weeks, and you never came, and I- I've almost convinced myself it didn't happen-"

"It happened," Novak says, quickly, like he can't bare for Andy to write it out of his memories.

"Then, explain it to me. Because I just don't understand."

Novak looks down, picking at the table with his fingernails. They're bitten and raw. "I wanted to," he says, quietly. "I asked after you. Every day."

"I don't believe you."

Novak shrugs. "I don't really expect you to. But, ask Boris. I was driving him crazy."

Andy drops his head into his hands, pulling hopelessly at his hair. His mind is worn and exhausted and coated with bourbon, and he has never wished so hard that he could read Novak like he can read everyone else. "You could have asked me."

"I wanted to," Novak repeats. "You have no idea how hard it's been to stay away from you."

Andy drops his hands to the table, raising his head to look at Novak. He doesn't know what to believe, not really. "I needed you," he says, finally, managing to keep his voice steady and matter-of-fact.

Novak flinches. His fingers clench and unclench around the edge of the table. 

"I thought I needed you," Andy amends. "But turns out I'm healing just fine without you." It's at least a little bit of a lie, but Andy's been telling himself the same thing, over and over again, every night, every time training with Amélie or Boris gets just a little too much, and Andy's almost – almost – starting to believe it.

"I know." Novak reaches over, wrapping his shaking hand around Andy's. "You never needed to prove anything to me. I already know you're the bravest, stupidest man I've ever met."

Andy chokes back a watery laugh.

Novak takes a deep breath. "That night, after the fight?" Andy nods. "I was so scared. Rosol was gone, but I wasn't convinced he wouldn't come back."

Andy shakes his head. "He wouldn't. He won't."

"I didn't know that. And you were so out of it, I don't even know how I got you upstairs. I had no idea how injured you really were, if I had-" He swallows, shakes his head. "I have nightmares about it. If you didn't wake up, if you had stopped breathing while I was sleeping next to you, I- . I was so stupid."

"You couldn't have known."

"Maybe. But maybe I would have, if I hadn't been so worried about not watching you so carefully."

"Nole-"

Novak tightens his fingers around Andy's to quiet him. "Then, when you came into the gym the next morning, you looked, Andy, you looked awful."

"Thanks," Andy tries to joke, but it's cracked and swampy and Novak's face twists into a sad little smile.

"Do you remember what it was like? In the beginning, before Amélie started to help fix it?" Novak reaches out with his free hand, hovering for a long moment before he touches the side of Andy's temple, brushing across his curls and his clammy skin. 

"I was feeling colors."

Novak nods, his fingers warm and lingering before he pulls them back "Your power was misfiring. I don't think you could control it, I don't even think you knew you were doing it. But, you were projecting, everywhere. I thought- I assumed- you're an empathy, yeah? I thought you couldn't tell the difference between others' emotions and your own."

"I couldn't." Andy admits. "Or, I couldn't interpret it or something. It's complicated."

"Yeah."

"Nole." Novak's hand is sweating and Andy turns his palm over to lace their fingers together. "What was I projecting at you?"

"A lot. You were confused and worried. Your mind was a mess."

"What else?"

"Affection," Novak admits. "You looked at me and you made that stupid joke about my color and even through all that," he waves his hand to encompass Andy's head, "you were projecting comfort, at me. No survival instincts at all."

Andy snorts. "Not around the people I care about, no."

"I get that, now."

"What I don't get is that even after you _knew_ how I felt, you stayed away?"

Novak starts, narrowing his eyes like it should be obvious. "You weren't in control of your power. It was- what I was feeling from you was invasive. I know what it's like to have things pulled out of you against your will, and I wouldn't do that to you."

"I'd already asked you to kiss me. Wasn't really a secret that I wanted you."

"You were drunk." 

"Doesn’t make it any less true."

"And the things you were projecting, they weren't- lust wasn't one of them."

Andy shrugs. "I never said anything about lust."

Novak closes his eyes.

"Nole, listen to me." Andy leans across the table, pushing away everyone else in the pub and pulling at his new, shaky architecture, pulling it back to find the part that he's buried, the part that belongs to Novak, and he projects it, as hard as he can.

"Andy." Novak chokes. "I didn't want to take advantage of you."

"Well, that was stupid, wasn't it?"

"Seems so."

Andy's head swims with the effort to project, and he drops Novak's hand to push against the table to keep himself steady.

"Idiot," Novak says, with affection, getting out of his chair and pulling Andy against his side.

"Crowds never really were my thing," Andy admits. He catches Carlos's eye across the bar and waves off his worried glance.

Novak tightens against him.

"You can't be jealous." Andy digs his elbow into Novak's side. "Haven't really gotten me yet, have you?"

"Wait 'til I get you upstairs," Novak promises.

The stairs are hard work, though. Away from the pub and the mass of people, Andy's mind spasms and relaxes, aching with the strain of a good work out. "I need an ice bath for my head," Andy whines, lowering himself gingerly to Novak's bed.

It doesn't look that much different than it did all those week ago, when Andy spent his first, fitful, concussed night here. Andy's pretty sure that Novak hasn't spent a lot of time here since then, either.

Novak crouches in front of him, taking Andy's hands and pressing them to his temples. Andy takes the invitation, pushing out towards Novak's mind, drowning in the calm, cool, quiet until the lingering colors and feelings start to fade and he can ease himself back into his shaky emotional architecture.

"Thanks," he murmurs, already lilting sideways.

Novak makes to get up, but Andy wraps his fingers around Novak's wrist and tugs. 

"Stay."

"Yeah," Novak agrees. "Okay."

The bed is small, and Novak stretches, carefully, along Andy's body. Andy grunts, throwing his arm over Novak's waist and Novak melts against him, like he was just waiting for something before he let go. Weeks of tension seem to ease as he pushes closer, one hand closed around Andy's hip, hard and grounding, and the other carding gently through Andy's unruly curls.

"Недостајеш ми," _I miss you_. Novak murmurs, his lips ghosting against Andy's ear. "Волим те." _I love you._

Andy presses closer, and he's asleep before he can ask Novak to translate.

***

Andy doesn’t know how long he sleeps. His mind feels a little sore, like he'd taken it for a long run, but no more than that. The moon is shining through the open window with a cool, quiet breeze. Berlin never sleeps, but if it did it would be now, in that space between midnight revelry and the early morning sounds of cafes and newspaper stands readying for the day.

Andy's eyes are still tired, and he's not sure why he's awake. Until Novak moans in distress, his arms tightening instinctively as Andy rolls over to squint at him. He's sweating, his skin pale and clammy, a deep, crease in his forehead.

"Nole," Andy murmurs, reaching up to scratch his fingernails across Novak's scrap. "Wake up, come on."

Novak mutters something in Serbian, before his eyes open, wild and dark.

"Hey," Andy soothes.

"You're here," Novak croaks, his voice dry and hoarse.

"Yeah," Andy agrees.

"You're okay," Novak continues, reaching down to slip his hands under Andy's shirt, feeling along his ribs and muscles and finding the spot on his lower back that Rosol had hurt the worst.

"Yeah," Andy says, again, a little breathless. 

Novak's hands are damp and shaky, but it's still Novak and it's still the first time Andy's been touched in over a year. He leans into the touch, hitching a leg over Novak's and resting his forehead against Novak's shoulder, breathing wetly into the thin cotton of his t-shirt.

"You're okay," Novak repeats. His hand finds Andy's hip and wraps, hard and insistent, around the bone. "And you're here."

He sounds as breathless as Andy feels and Andy nods, his hair brushing against Novak's chin. Novak groans, pulling at Andy's hip, forcing him higher, and then they're kissing. 

Andy's never felt anything like it before. 

He can't feel Novak, not in any mess of colors or emotions. But he can feel Novak's arousal in the way he kisses, open-mouthed and desperate. He can feel Novak's affection in the way he caresses Andy's spine in long, slow, tantalizing sweeps. And under and through it all, Andy can feel his own response, affection and arousal and need that are all his own and no one else's.

"Fuck," he breathes, pulling away just long enough to catch his breath. "I didn't know it could be like this."

Novak chuckles, in awe and desperation, and buries his forehead in Andy's shoulder. "I didn't think I could have this."

"And whose fault is that?" Andy asks, even as his hips stutter in rhythm with Novak's, both of them hard and straining through their boxers.

"You're insufferable." Novak rolls him over, kicking his shorts and boxers off as he spreads out on top of Andy. He settles between Andy's spread thighs, slipping his fingers under Andy's waistband and caressing the skin there. "It's a good thing I'm in love with you."

Andy pauses. "Fuck you. Now. Really? Now?"

Novak shrugs, his smile not faltering. "Seemed like as good a time as any." He twists his fingers in Andy's boxers. "Would you mind terribly if I got back to this?"

Andy scowls, but he lifts his hips when Novak pulls at the fabric, getting it far enough down for Andy to kick them off. Novak settles, skin on skin, and Andy loses himself in Novak's touches and Novak's dick against his, dripping and hard and straining towards Andy's, like it was always meant to.

"I need- Nole," Andy moans, getting his hand in between their bodies. His palm stretches around their dicks, slick and warm and with just enough pressure for Novak to keen. 

Andy laughs and Novak buries his head in Andy's skin, biting at the pale, exposed skin where Andy's shirt has stretched over his shoulder. 

"Fuck off," Andy tries, as he wraps his foot around Novak's calf and holds him closer. 

"Gotta be one or the other," Novak murmurs, arching his back to change the angle his dick slides against Andy's. "God, you feel-"

"Perfect," Andy offers. 

Novak raises his mouth to meet Andy's. "Perfect," he murmurs, his mouth open with the little whines and cries that he makes against Andy's lips as their rhythm speeds up. 

Andy can feel everything. The pull of his muscles, the desperate, aching need to touch Novak everywhere, the building of his own pleasure, like everything he's feeling is his own, like this is his first time. It's too good to last as long as he'd like, and he can feel it as a rush, cries out, his knees shaking and his back arching, as he spills between them, moments before Novak follows. 

"Shit," Andy offers, lying back against the pillows, his arm thrown over his eyes. 

The sheets pull as Novak leans over the edge, rustling around for their boxers to clean them both up. When he's done, Andy stretches and then turns into his side, fitting himself in Novak's nooks and crannies.

"I love you, yeah?" He asks, even though he knows that Novak must know by now, after what's been apparently weeks of Andy projecting it at him.

"It's nice to hear," Novak admits, his hands in Andy's curls, pulling and tugging. 

Andy sighs into it, bringing his mind into direct apposition with Novak's, feeling nothing but his own comfort and the slow, steady, sated beating of Novak's heart.

**Author's Note:**

> I'll post the link to my tumblr once authors have been revealed!
> 
> So excited that authors have been revealed. Please come find me on [tumblr](http://stainyourhands.tumblr.com) if you want to talk about Andy, superpowers, writing or, really, anything tennis and/or slash related!


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